Banquet What-If
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: Remember when the centurion said to Unpatriotix in Asterix and the Banquet "If you're lying, you get 200 lashes?" What if he decided to punish Asterix before Obelix rescued him? Rating for some pretty graphic depictions of violence. This is a self-indulgent hurt/comfort wallow, pure and simple. LOOK UNDER THIS FIC, PEOPLE, ZERAGII HAS A NEW ONE UP! YES, OTHER THAN INNER LIGHT!
1. Chapter 1

"I didn't even have time to take a drop of magic potion," Asterix fumed in frustration as the legionaries led him out of Unpatriotix's house. He cast a few glances unobtrusively about him at the forest – he knew Obelix was out there, and he could really do with his help right about now – but apparently his friend had ventured deep into the woods to look for boars.

"Come on, Gaul! No dawdling!" Through the chains, Asterix felt what must have been the point of a spear prodding him on. He smoothed the lines of anger from his face, holding his head high as he walked along with the Roman garrison.

"Here's your reward: 100 sestertii," said the Centurion. With that, he tossed a sack of coins to a man hiding behind the bushes. Craning his neck, Asterix could just see the outline of a long nose with a large mole on it. Unpatriotix! Their generous host had betrayed them – for money! _But we were guests in his house, sleeping in his bedroom – that goes against every rule of Gaulish hospitality... _But Asterix's thoughts were cut short by the conversation that followed.

"What?" Unpatriotix complained. "But we said 200!"

"200 for two Gauls," the prefect retorted. "We only got one."

"What?! Only one?!"

Asterix couldn't help perking up at Unpatriotix's hysterical babbling. With any luck, once Obelix got back, he'd find out where Asterix had been taken. Unpatriotix would never stand up to Obelix, especially when he was angry. Yes, Asterix thought, cultivating an aloof expression and walking with a confident tread, all he had to do was wait for Obelix to show up. And meanwhile, he would show them how a Gaul could handle captivity.

Asterix didn't mind admitting it was a long walk back to the garrison town. True, he and all his fellow-villagers were used to walking for miles, but the chains were weighing him down, and he hadn't had any potion. To make matters worse, one of the big legionaries behind him kept pushing him down and laughing at his attempts to get up. It was difficult enough to keep his balance, and the first time Asterix had slowed down a little, the legionary had shoved him with his spear. The point couldn't penetrate the coils of heavy chain, but it did cause Asterix to topple over forwards; without the use of his arms and weighted down by at least fifty _libras _of metal on his body, he had no balance, and fell flat on his face in the dirt, to the loud laughter of the legionaries. "Not so indomitable now!" was the most polite of the taunts they threw at him.

He didn't listen to the other ones.

Asterix had tried to keep his dignity as he rose, but it wasn't easy. Arms pinned to his sides, upper body weighted down with heavy coils of iron, he found it an arduous and painful task, and had fallen back to the ground more than once. Amused by Asterix's awkward struggles to get to his feet, the legionary had kept repeating the practice throughout. Gritting his teeth, Asterix pretended not to mind, and held his head high as they walked past the sign reading "Divodurum." The Gauls who passed them by couldn't afford to see him hanging his head – the tour of Gaul was meant to inspire the other towns and villages, not demoralize them.

As the Romans marched him through the streets of the town, Asterix rolled his head on his neck to smudge away the sweat that had started to run down his face. Toutatis be praised, not too many people saw the procession as it headed towards the Roman barracks – he didn't really relish being stared at while being led along in chains, and he was getting tired.

The one or two Gauls he did see looked at him curiously, but, possibly intimidated by the legionaries, didn't stop to stare too long. For his part, Asterix put up a brave front, sticking out his chin and marching along with as much dignity as he could muster, as though being paraded through the streets in chains was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

He allowed his shoulders to slump, just a bit, and huffed out a relieved breath when the great gates of the Roman barracks slammed shut behind him. Asterix's neck was beginning to ache from the proud posture, but he would be carried off to Hades before he showed weakness in front of these Romans.

As though summoned by his thought, the centurion commanding the garrison came up to face Asterix, looming over him triumphantly. "Well, well, how the mighty have fallen," he gloated. "What have you to say for yourself, Gaul?"

"Coward," Asterix said disdainfully. "You didn't have the courage to meet us in a fair fight, you attacked while we were asleep."

The centurion snorted. "Asleep. And your friend who was supposed to keep watch – he deserted you, didn't he? Left you to face the music."

Only a fool warns his enemy, and Asterix had no intention of letting the centurion know that Obelix wouldn't rest until he found him. He merely kept silent.

"Well, he was wise," the centurion continued, "because you are about to see what happens to those who defy the might of Rome."

Asterix raised an eyebrow, but remained otherwise impassive, although his blood ran cold. He knew of what the Romans had done, and still did, to many of his fellow-countrymen, and even to their own. He chilled at the thought that he might be crucified.

"Silent treatment, eh?" The centurion's lip curled in a sneer. "We'll have you singing soon enough." He turned to a legionary. "Fetch Mercilus, and have him bring the _flagrum."_ Snapping his fingers, he called two more men over. "Unchain the prisoner and secure him to the whipping-post."

A chill of fear, carefully hidden, made Asterix's blood run cold. He had heard his parents tell of men who had died under the Roman _flagrum, _a scourge more terrible than anything antiquity had known. A slightly less horrific death than crucifixion, but a bad way to die.

Asterix kept perfectly still while a small Roman legionary approached with the key to his chains. He couldn't afford to wait for Obelix to turn up, not anymore. His only chance was to make a grab for the gourd of potion in his belt the moment the chains were loosened, possibly even underneath the chains, take a quick swig, and run for dear life. Speed was his only advantage, and…

"Hold it!" bellowed the centurion. "Strip him of weapons first. These Gauls are dangerous, and we're taking no chances."

Asterix forced himself to remain impassive as his sword was jerked from its sheath. Perhaps, perhaps they would think the gourd was just wine, and leave it.

"What about this, Centurion?" called the little legionary. Asterix held completely still as the man pulled the gourd of potion from his belt.

"Give it here," the centurion called.

In a moment Asterix saw it all, everything that would happen if the gourd were to fall into the Romans' hands: the centurion tasting the potion, acquiring superhuman strength, the village's secret discovered, Getafix kidnapped and tortured to make potion for the Romans… "It's poison," Asterix blurted.

With an undignified "Eek!", the little legionary dropped the gourd as though it would bite him. The stopper popped out, and the flexible gourd slowly flattened as the magical liquid glub-glubbed out onto the flagstones, to drain away in the spaces between.

"Poison, eh?" said the centurion. "Plotting to murder Caesar, are you? Low-down Gauls, no honour in you!"

Asterix forced himself to remain silent. He said not a word as the legionary unwound the chains from around him, while other legionaries surrounded him with spears, keeping him from making a run for it._ I would not murder Caesar in cold blood: Caesar is a worthy opponent, unlike you,_ he thought, but did not say it, for words were useless now.

"Your punishment will be severe," the centurion gloated. "Mercilus, show the prisoner what is in store for him!"

A hulking legionary, bulging with muscle under his uniform, came round in front of Asterix, dangling a many-tailed whip. At the end of each knotted leather thong was a small, sharp piece of bone.

Asterix swallowed. He couldn't help it. He hoped his fear didn't show, but it must have, because the centurion laughed. "Not so cocky now, eh? Let's see if you'll be so quiet with your guts spilling out through your back!"

Forcing himself to lift his head high, Asterix kept his tread steady as the legionaries led him with their spears to a wooden post like the cut-off mainmast of a ship. He tried to keep his chin up as two big men grabbed his arms and thrust them through the manacles attached to the post. He remained impassive, not even flinching as someone inserted a sword through his tunic, ripping the fabric from top to bottom and exposing his back for the whip. But he had never felt so afraid, and so alone.

Asterix – unlike many of his fellow-villagers – was no fool. He liked a bit of fun and a punch-up as well as the next Gaul, but – again, unlike many of his fellow-villagers – he was well aware what he was getting into when he defied the Roman Empire. There was always a chance, when they went on one of their adventures, that they wouldn't come back, although Asterix always did his best to ensure that they stayed alive. And there had always been a chance, he thought as the cold metal clamped shut around his wrists, a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless, that one of their adventures would end up like this.

So be it. He would endure it, till Obelix came. And if his friend was too late? Well, Asterix would die like a Gaul, that was all, and try to do his village and his parents honour.

* * *

Mercilus was a good torturer, a good executioner. He was aware that he did the dirty work of the Roman Empire, but it was for his country, and if he didn't do it, somebody else had to. Still, there was something about this little Gaul that made him… uncomfortable. Part of it was the man's palpable dignity – he didn't cry or beg for mercy like many Mercilus had seen when faced with the _flagrum_ – but part of it was how very easy it would be to accidentally kill this man, his small body so much more vulnerable than anyone else Mercilus had flogged. "Centurion, sir," he said respectfully, "permission to use a lighter whip."

The centurion fixed Mercilus with a stern eye. "You would show mercy to an enemy of the Empire? One who conspired to make fools of us, and murder Caesar into the bargain?"

"No, Centurion, sir. It is merely that – he seems not to have a very strong constitution, and if he were to—"

"Silence!" roared the superior officer. "You are to flog this man as you flog all condemned criminals, until I see fit to tell you to stop, and by Juno if you don't lay on the stripes to the best of your ability, you'll find yourself with the lions in the circus!"

Mercilus took in a deep breath through his nostrils. "Yes, sir." Well, at least he had tried…

With all his strength, Mercilus extended his arm as far out as it would go, and used the full power of his shoulder and back muscles to smash the whip into the bare back of the defenceless Gaul.

Asterix's body arched back of its own accord, and he gasped. He couldn't help it. The pain was horrific, beyond anything he could have imagined. Through the spikes of agony lancing through his back, he heard a faint echo of laughter, before the explosive WHACK of the second lash drove all thought from his brain. Asterix felt himself writhing, but he couldn't control it. He couldn't.

The whip fell again. With the third stroke of the _flagrum_, and the fourth, the pain became excruciating, inconceivable. How could he have thought he could maintain his dignity in the face of _this? _There was simply nothing to compare it to. He had never been hurt this much in his life. Everything was background noise, subsumed beneath the urgent, all-consuming hurt, the pain that told his body it could not take much more of this, that it would die if this was allowed to continue.

"How do you like the punishment for defying the might of Rome, Gaul? Not so defiant now, are you?"

For the life of him, Asterix couldn't muster a suitable retort. And yet… He thought of his parents, of his village, of the children, of Getafix, of all those weaker than he was, all those who depended on him. He opened his mouth to make some response.

Unbearable, insupportable pain arced through him as the many-tailed _flagrum _cut through his flesh like butter – and again, with another brutal blow that drove the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath as the pain blistered its path through his entire body. A muscle in his shoulder started twitching involuntarily, small futile contractions. The torturer stood back, perhaps to gauge the effect his blows had had on his victim, and whatever the reason, Asterix was grateful for the respite. Blinking tears of pain from his eyes, Asterix gritted his teeth. He had to swallow, and it tasted like iron – it seemed he'd bitten his tongue, or his lips. "We'll fight you—till the day we die," he choked out.

The Roman centurion blinked. "That day might be today," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he gestured to the legionary holding the whip.

Asterix saw a blur, and then – oh, Toutatis – such pain as he could never have imagined, he could feel his spine cracking, his flesh peeling off the bones – oh, please, please, stop the pain – he gasped as the knots in the _flagrum_ embedded themselves into him and jerked out, ripping away chunks of flesh, tearing strips of skin along with them, sending lightning-bolts shooting through him as the blood splattered out. The torturer stepped back and wiped Asterix's blood off his face, but Asterix couldn't register the respite. Tears of pain welled in his eyes and slipped down his cheeks, and he knew it was shameful for a Gaul to show weakness before the Romans but he couldn't help it, it hurt so badly and he was dying and he wanted Obelix—

Yes. Please. He wanted Obelix, it hurt so much, so very much, and the man was beating him again, and his mouth opened in a silent scream but he forced himself not to cry out and he knew his body was writhing in a desperate attempt to squirm away from the agonizing blows, his limbs were all jerking now in uncontrollable muscle spasms, his hands fisting in the air, and he didn't know how long he could remain silent in the face of _this,_ he couldn't take it he couldn't take it _please please a Gaul doesn't scream— _His head lashed from side to side as the punishment went on, _please, please, please, they wouldn't do this if Obelix were here, please, Obelix, please, help me, no more no more no more—_

He held back his cries for as long as he could, but in the end, he shrieked like the damned.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: Thanks so much for the encouragement with this. I would be remiss if I didn't thank CrazyBeaver for the original beta and support.

* * *

The scene Obelix walked into would haunt him in his nightmares for the rest of his days.

It had been so stupidly _hard _to find Asterix, so hard to find the prison, so hard to find anything. And yet, Obelix had never entertained the notion that Asterix would be anything _but_ all right. Asterix was _always _all right, fighting the Romans was always just a game, slightly harder at times than others but as long as there was a good punch-up and plenty of wild boar, it was always fun, and everything was always all right.

Not today.

For a moment he couldn't even comprehend what he was seeing. A lot of Romans gathered around, and then some poor devil with a lot of blood splattered around him on the ground, and a Roman standing over him with a whip, and Asterix would have to wait for him for a few minutes, because if Asterix were here he'd tell Obelix to help the Gaul being hurt by the Romans first and then come and get him out of prison.

As Obelix moved towards the men clustered round the whipping-post, the legionary doing the scourging raised the whip high into the air, and brought it down, burying it deep into the victim's bloody flesh, between his ribs. As he jerked it out, the man screamed.

Obelix knew that voice. Knew that scream, although he had never before heard that voice cry out in agony.

It was as though Obelix had never known pain before this moment.

It wasn't true, it couldn't be, he was hearing wrong, it was some kind of mistake. He was running into the throng of Romans before he realized it, fists flying like windmills, knocking Romans right and left, sending them flying into the skies, but there was no pleasure in it, no joy, because he had to _see _who that Gaul was who had screamed like—who was short like—who was blond like—no, it couldn't possibly be, _never, _never, he thought as he dispatched the Commander up into the clouds with an uppercut and grabbed the torturer, spinning him around and bodily flinging him over the walls, _never._

Then the Romans were gone and it was all quiet and Obelix tiptoed towards the whipping-block, tears already beginning to spill. There was a circle of blood on the flagstones around it. "As…Asterix?" he whispered. "It's not you, tell me it isn't you."

The limp, bloodied figure made no reply.

Obelix snapped out of his shocked trance and rushed to Asterix's side, falling to his knees _(in the blood so much blood) _facing him. For a terrible, endless moment, he thought he was dead. _(not dead not dead never dead he can't be dead) _But then, Asterix's eyelids fluttered, _(oh thank Toutatis) _slitting open to reveal bleary blue eyes, pupils dilated, lashes – oh, Asterix – drenched with tears of pain.

Obelix was already reaching out, ignoring the tears that spilled steadily down his own face, delicately snapping the iron manacles around Asterix's wrists with his fingers. But as soon as the shackles were removed, Asterix started to slide down: Obelix realized they had been the only thing keeping him upright. Choking on his own tears, he knelt closer and supported Asterix with one hand while he broke the leg-irons around his friend's ankles with the other. With a soft groan, Asterix slumped against the whipping-post, then fell forward past it, landing against Obelix's chest.

Obelix almost, almost embraced him; but his hands stopped in mid-air. The reality of Asterix leaning there against him, shaking hard with shock and pain, struck Obelix once again, and he realized he, too, was shaking. _Oh Toutatis, oh, Asterix, oh gods what do I do? Asterix, how do I help you? _He gulped down a sob. He'd give his life to help Asterix, but he didn't know what to do!

"Obelix…" It was a breath, no more than a sigh, but the sound of Asterix whispering his name jolted Obelix from his panic. This was no time to break down. So many times Asterix had been Obelix's strength: he'd made plans, taken risks, shouldered the responsibility for Obelix, for the village, for Gaul, and now that Asterix had fallen, it was Obelix's turn to step up, to be strong for him.

He hastily looked away from the torn, oozing flesh of Asterix's destroyed back; he couldn't look at that now, not and do what needed to be done. He reached out, gently cupping Asterix's elbows in his hands, wondering how to lift him, praying that he wasn't causing his friend any more pain.

"Obelix?" Asterix's raw voice whispered again. His head had sunk down to rest on Obelix's shoulder; Obelix could feel his tears on his skin. The knowledge that Asterix had been crying from the pain made his heart hurt. He shuddered convulsively as the memory of that scream pierced his heart again.

"I'm here, Asterix," he murmured softly, choking back his own tears. "I'm here and – and I'll take care of everything." Without thought, he shifted closer and slipped an arm beneath Asterix's thighs, so that his forearm formed a seat for his friend. Asterix slumped forward against Obelix, tremors of pain and shock running through his slight body. Obelix brought his other arm round and cupped the back of Asterix's head, soft blond hair all drenched and matted with dirt and sweat. The thought that Asterix had been sweating from pain and torment made Obelix's blood boil, but he controlled himself sternly. Slowly, he rose to his feet, holding Asterix: they ended up with Obelix carrying Asterix against his stomach as a mother would carry her child on her hip, Asterix's chest flush against Obelix's upper body, his head pillowed on Obelix's shoulder, and nothing at all touching his poor back.

There was a whisper of breath against Obelix's shoulder as he turned to go, and he realized Asterix was speaking to him. "Yes, Asterix," he said softly. "What is it?"

"…bag…" Asterix breathed, his voice raspy.

"Don't you worry. I'll get it," Obelix said, swallowing down his tears. He had to be strong for Asterix. As he scooped up the discarded shopping bag containing their treasures, he saw his friend's sword lying on the flagstone, and noticed, for the first time, that the blond head resting on his shoulder was bare. Although he wanted nothing more than to get out of this place, Obelix forced himself to look around, and was rewarded with his friend's helmet, wings dragging forlornly in the dirt. Lying near it was a flat, nearly empty gourd of potion – the one that had hung at Asterix's side. Obelix knelt, still carefully holding Asterix, and scooped up his friend's things, tucking them safely into his own broad belt. Then he wrapped the shopping bag around his elbow, brought his free hand back up to support Asterix's head, and swallowed down his tears as he carried his friend out of the barracks and into the city.


	3. Chapter 3

Notes: So many thanks for the reviews and love! The previous was short, but they seemed to work better as separate chapters, hence the division. By the way, if anyone can suggest a title better than this, which has been my working title since I thought of the story, I'd welcome the help!

* * *

Everything was hazy for Asterix.

There had been nothing but pain – his spine felt like it was ready to break, his kidneys lacerated, his sides ripped and torn open, ribs flayed to the bone – his body had been beyond his control, the pain crushing him, reducing him to twitching and jerking as his muscles and nerves shut down. He'd been alone, in a harsh place void of compassion, among people who hated him, who hurt him and enjoyed it, who laughed at his suffering.

And then, there had been thumps and shouts, and the pain had—well, not _stopped _but at least the blows had ceased – and then, there'd been gentle hands releasing him, kind, comforting touches, a warm, soft surface welcoming Asterix's exhausted and tortured body. He'd lain against that warmth and rested, found peace. He'd laid his head on his friend's shoulder, and although he was in so much pain that he barely knew his own name, he knew who the tender hands belonged to, knew who the person was who responded to him with compassion, and sympathy, and affection. He'd whispered "Obelix" and been rewarded with kind words, reassurances, and the knowledge that his best friend had come for him at last.

Asterix ought to stay awake, this much he knew: a warrior must always be alert, even when injured. But it was such a relief not to be chained up and hurt anymore, so comforting to be cradled in gentle arms instead of manacled to a whipping-block, so wonderful to be picked up and carried away from the torture, that despite the pain, he relaxed into the warm softness of Obelix's embrace. It felt like water after thirst, like food after hunger: it almost seemed to leach away the fiercest of the pain, making him feel a little less like his body was being eaten alive by flame.

Asterix tried, he really tried, to tell Obelix about his sword, and about the shopping bag filled with Gaulish delicacies, the prize they'd been fighting for. He knew that _he _was supposed to be the one taking care of things, that he was supposed to be the one who made the plans. But he was exhausted, and he couldn't think, and the gentle embrace was easing his pain, and Obelix was here now. His best friend had made him a promise, Asterix had heard the words through the pounding of the blood in his ears. Asterix could stop fighting now. Obelix would take care of everything. He couldn't walk, could barely move, and it was shameful, he knew – but his friend was here, and he could just rest, and let Obelix carry him, for a while.

With a sigh, Asterix let his eyes close.

* * *

Away from the barracks, the streets of Divodurum were narrow, flanked by low, welcoming-looking houses. But doors slammed on either side as Obelix hurried down the alleyways. Asterix had stopped answering him after they had emerged from the Roman barracks, and that silence, that stillness, was clamping a cold hand around his heart.

The minute they'd stepped outside, Asterix had gone limp, the breath sighing out of him. The sensation of Asterix giving up the fight had sent a chill through Obelix. Asterix, always so full of energy, slumped cold and lifeless against his chest… Toutatis, it had been the worst thing in his life. Obelix had gone half-mad at first, calling Asterix's name over and over, afraid to shake him, afraid to touch him, afraid that—that—He couldn't even let himself think it. Instead, he had shifted Asterix's head on his shoulder until it was facing his neck, coaxed Asterix's nose and mouth closer to him, and then stood perfectly still, every particle of his skin on alert, listening, waiting, willing the wind to stop blowing—until, finally, thank all the gods, Obelix had felt a faint whisper of warm breath against his neck. Breathing. Breathing, thank all the gods. Alive.

Alive. And he would keep him that way.

His instincts were calling to him to run to the forest, but he ignored them steadfastly. He and Asterix had always made the forest their home on their voyages, sleeping on the lush grass, with no cover but the gentle summer sky, the drone of forest insects their lullaby and the woodland birds standing in for the village cockerel, but that was out of the question now. He had to find shelter for Asterix, shelter and warmth and a druid. His injured friend needed to be in a soft bed, somewhere warm and dry and clean. How Obelix wished they were back in the village, with their kindly druid Getafix, and the ladies of the village providing fresh linens and water and… He blinked, hard. He wasn't in the village, and there was no time for idle dreams. Asterix's blood, flowing from the open wounds in his back and slipping steadily down over Obelix's arm, was an urgent reminder. Asterix's breath, warm against his skin, was growing slower, harsher. Obelix could feel it.

And so, now, he forged through the streets of the garrison town, the fearful inhabitants closing their doors against him, unable to locate an inn or a place of refuge, and Obelix was fast growing used to the unfamiliar sensation of fear.

An old man slammed his door before Obelix could get to him – he could have run, he could have smashed in the door, but he couldn't now, not with Asterix in his arms, and he was afraid to jostle him, to hurt him more – there was a child playing at the end of the street, but before Obelix could get to him the mother had snatched her inside and slammed the door – There! A young Gaulish woman, sweeping in front of her hut.

She flung her broom down and bolted for the door, but Obelix took a few hurried steps forward and stuck his hand in between the door and the frame just before it could slam in his face.

The girl stared, wide-eyed, as the heavy wooden door bounced off the fleshy part of Obelix's palm and rebounded to swing wide open. She clutched her shawl around her, terrified, taking a step back.

"Miss," Obelix said, standing quite still. He saw her eyes flit to Asterix, saw her hand fly up to her mouth. "I need a druid," he said baldly. "My friend—" Obelix saw the terror on her face, but wasn't really in a position to care all that much— "my friend needs a druid."

She stared at Asterix, not meeting Obelix's eyes. "We don't have one, except for…" She paused for an instant, then shook her head. "We don't have a druid."

Obelix shuddered. "How can you not have a druid?" he blurted. Asterix would live, of _course_ he would, and he would be well, of _course_ he would, but he was _so badly _hurt, and without a druid… "Every Gaulish village has a druid! Every—"

"We don't!" she cried. "We haven't had one since the Romans—"

"Who are you talking to, Xenophobia?" called the voice of an older woman from inside the house. "I thought I told you not to talk to strange men!"

"It's… Mother, there's a man who's injured…"

There was the sound of a stick clomping against the floor, and a homely, middle-aged woman stepped up behind the girl. Suspicious grey eyes met Obelix's first, then dropped to Asterix. At the sight of him, her whole aspect changed from suspicion to outright animosity. "And you thought you'd bring the Romans down on our doorstep, did you! Dripping a trail of blood, in front of our house!" She glared at Obelix. "I'll thank you to take your – your friend, or whatever he is, elsewhere. We're law-abiding folk, we are, and we don't want to be seen with outlaws!"

And she slammed the door in his face.

Obelix blinked, over and over. He had never been in charge of making plans before, and his first instinct was to ask Asterix what to do. But Asterix was lying against his shoulder, unconscious, grievously injured, and there was nothing Obelix could do but try to help him. And that meant trying to ask this woman politely, one more time, if there was a druid… He looked up at the door, and knocked.

"Breaking down our doors! Help! Help!" screeched the older woman. "My neighbours, help! I'm being attacked! Call a patrol!"

Obelix looked from the smashed-in door to the people trickling out of the neighboring huts. Normally he would love this, love the chance of a punch-up. Fists flying, he would dispatch any threat and enjoy it too.

He carefully adjusted the small body in his arms, lowered his head and spoke humbly. "I need a druid," he said. "It's," he had to swallow hard, "urgent."

The Divodurum Gauls' faces softened as their eyes fell on Asterix. Some stared at him with pity, others recoiled in horror. Obelix half-turned away, shielding Asterix from their eyes. "Don't stare at him like that," he grunted, but had to stop as his tears choked him.

Some of the assembled men and women averted their eyes, and murmuring broke out among them. Finally, a short man with dark hair stepped forward. "Our druid was taken by the Romans to heal their prefect in another city," a short man said, not harshly. "We don't have one anymore, unless they return him."

"There's Beatnix, out in the forest," somebody's voice piped up.

"That quack?" The dark-haired man turned on him. "There's a reason he's banished to the forest! You call him a druid?"

"He healed my daughter Rubella," somebody else said.

"She just had a fever, she would have healed anyway!" snapped a third Gaul.

"What about Anaesthesix? They said he wouldn't survive!"

"Pure chance!"

"You know what they say about the practitioners of Roman medicine! Once an undertaker, always an undertaker!"

"He was never an…"

Obliex blinked. The girl who had opened the door to her hut was pressing something into his hand – a scrap of parchment, with a small drawing on it. "Here," she whispered. "This will show you how to get to him." She looked up at Asterix, sudden tears in her eyes. "Go."

And for the first time in his life, Obelix turned away from a fight, and headed out towards the forest.


	4. Chapter 4

Notes: So many thanks for the reviews. I was very, very hesitant about posting this, and I'm absolutely overwhelmed by how positive everyone is being.

* * *

There was a chill in the air as Obelix hit the outskirts of the town, heading deeper into the wooded area the girl had roughly sketched on the parchment for him. "We'll find you help," he murmured, "you'll be all right, it'll be just fine… See, we just have to follow the map now…"

He moved on, continually smoothing back Asterix's hair and speaking softly to him, as though his unconscious friend could hear him. The packed dirt and stone of the town streets gave way to cool grass beneath his thin shoes. "See, now, the map says: Six rows of houses behind the Roman barracks, turn to the northwest, past the creek, across the path of rocks…" The talking helped him concentrate on following the instructions, for he knew that if he focused too hard on the small body that lay against his shoulder, if he let himself feel the blood that still flowed sluggishly over his arm, rapidly congealing in the cold air, he might break down, and he couldn't afford to break down, not here, not now. Asterix wasn't here to tell him to be sensible, or to pull himself together.

As Obelix pushed on through the trees, he had to correct himself: if Asterix had been conscious and Obelix had burst into tears, Asterix wouldn't have told him to be sensible. Asterix never told him to be sensible when he cried. Asterix only ever told him to be sensible and control himself when he got a fit of the giggles. When Obelix was unhappy, Asterix was always understanding, was unfailingly there with a shoulder to cry on and a comforting hug. The thought of Asterix holding him as he cried almost made Obelix burst into tears again, but he controlled himself sternly. _This isn't the time,_ he repeated over and over in his head._ This isn't the time. _He remembered Asterix saying that phrase, and remembered giving him a hard time—'Why not, Mr Asterix?' he remembered saying, more than once, and getting into huge fights. Obelix grunted in remorse. He wished he hadn't given him a hard time then, for now he understood what those words meant, now that Asterix had paid for his, Obelix's, carelessness. He paused for a moment to get his bearings, breathed in deeply, and gently adjusted his friend's unconscious body more securely against his. "I'm sorry, Asterix," he muttered, too low for anyone to hear. "This is all my fault."

As the light faded in the gathering dusk, Obelix couldn't repress the chill that closed around his heart. He quickened his pace, trying to press Asterix's cold body closer so as to give him some of his own warmth. If it got dark here in the forest with no shelter, the cold of the night, combined with Asterix's injuries, would… Obelix's eyes burned, and he blinked, hard.

Oh, Toutatis be praised. There it was. The flicker of firelight was just visible through the trees, a point of warmth and brightness in the darkening indigo that was swallowing up trees and sky alike. Obelix headed for it, praying for all he was worth.

* * *

Beatnix the Druid bent over his cauldron, taking in a deep breath of the herbal aroma. The recipe was doing well, simmering gently. Into his long braid, he carefully wound a daisy, feeling its blessings smiling through his hut. Sunshine.

A ripple, sharp like iron, cut through his domestic contentment. There was something here, something other than the flowers of the fields and the creatures of the forest. There were men out there. Men—in agony.

He placed the flat of his hand over his heart, absently massaging, as he walked to the door of his hut. This was going to be hard, he could feel it.

As he flung the door open, the blast of pain nearly knocked him off his feet. Torment, of the flesh and of the heart. Torment with ill intent, yet love, he felt it too. Beatnix had to cling to the doorframe for a moment to regain control of himself. Sending up a prayer to Belisama, he grabbed a necklace of elderflower to strengthen his resolve and, stringing it around his neck, headed out into the forest, into the storm of pain.

* * *

The hut was far. So far. Too far. Obelix felt his anger flare, but not at the Romans – at himself. Obelix cursed himself for a hundred kinds of a fool. This was what Asterix had been so serious about, what he had warned Obelix against, time and time again, and Obelix had never listened. This was why Asterix refused to take it as a game, even though he enjoyed a good punch-up and a bit of fun as much as the next Gaul. This was why Asterix stopped him thumping the Romans sometimes; why Asterix could be a bit of a spoilsport on occasion. Because it wasn't sport. It wasn't a game, and Obelix hadn't known it, and it was Asterix who'd paid the price. "Asterix?" Obelix whispered. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."

There was no reply, of course. There had been no reply for hours now, but they were so close—so close! He couldn't lose Asterix now, he couldn't. The tears he had manfully fought back would not be contained, not now that the flickering firelight of a druid's hut was in sight. "Asterix," Obelix said again. "Please. Asterix. Hold on. What's to become of me if you…" But he couldn't go on, and gulped out a sob. "Asterix," he sniffed, no longer caring if he cried or not. Curling his hand about Asterix's face, he eased his friend's head closer to his own neck, pressing his cheek into the messy blond hair. "Just a little longer. For me," he whispered, Asterix's hair soaking up his tears. "Please."

"Come this way."

Obelix jumped. "Who are you?" he shouted, arms tightening around Asterix.

"Beatnix the druid," said a man's voice. Now he looked, Obelix could just make out a figure among the trees. "I imagine you may have come to see me. My hut is this way."

Obelix had never feared strangers before, never feared going into a strange hut before. But all this was his fault, it had been his selfishness that had put them in this predicament in the first place – if he hadn't told Asterix to come with him to eat in that traitor's house, if Obelix had just stayed with Asterix instead of going off to hunt boar – he'd been enjoying himself in the forest while Asterix, his best friend in all the world, was being… Obelix closed his eyes, tears burning them. "Asterix," he breathed, "tell me what to do."

"Come on." Obelix jumped again – the man was much closer this time. He could tell it was a middle-aged man with long hair, built more like Unhygienix and less like Cacofonix, but Obelix couldn't make out much more in the darkness. "Your friend doesn't have any time to waste."

And it was this that made Obelix follow the man through the trees, towards his hut.


	5. Chapter 5

In the forest outside Divodurum, a pair of nightbirds cried, stopping in their circling to observe the two human figures below. Soon losing interest, they flitted off for the rich hunt of crickets and other insects that awaited them.

Beatnix stole glances at the big man as he led the pair to his hut. He had to take deep breaths of the night-blooming chanterelles to calm himself, for what he saw shocked him more than he had thought possible. The smaller man had been horribly flogged. The Romans, of course. It was not the first time Beatnix had seen such marks, though not on anyone living. And yet, it was not the bleeding man's pain that rocked him back, but the terrible grief that shrouded his big friend like a mist, swamping even the love that bound the pair. Beatnix knew that if he did not succeed in saving the small Gaul, it was not one but two lives that would be lost.

For his part, as the light from the hut brightened with proximity and made everything clearer, Obelix was staring more and more openly at this man, who didn't look like any druid Obelix had seen before. He wore a long druid's tunic, it was true, but it was multicolored, stained with every floral dye the forest had to offer. Strings of flowers hung about his neck and decorated the crown of his head. His long brown hair was braided long over his shoulders, twined with flowers of myriad hues and descriptions. Here and there, a live butterfly rested on his head. And, unlike every druid Obelix had ever seen, he wore no beard, but a good Gaulish mustache such as Obelix himself wore.

Obelix didn't think he looked much like a druid. But it was dark now, and he had no choice anymore. Still, he vowed, if this man so much as looked at Asterix wrong, druid or no druid, he'd soon make the acquaintance of Obelix's fist.

* * *

The two men finally reached the hut. Beatnix pushed the door open and led the two strangers into the warmth. "Place him here," he motioned to the big man, indicating his own narrow bed, close by the fire. He crossed over to his medicinal pantry, using the moment to compose himself. The emotions coming from this pair were almost overpowering in the enclosed space, but there was no question of not letting them stay. So he dealt with the pain as best he could, taking comfort in the affection emanating from the big man as he tenderly laid his friend face-down on the bed, more lovingly than a mother with a newborn.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Beatnix loaded up his arms with salves and supplies and turned towards them, taking a few steps across the room to where the big man was kneeling by his friend's bedside…

…and stopped in his tracks.

In the light, he saw what he had not seen before: it was hopeless.

The big man's breeches were soaked with blood, gobletfuls of it. More blood glistened sticky on his arm where he had been carrying his friend. Beatnix wondered that the little body on the bed still had any blood left in it. The poor man had lost so much, and still his torn back welled sluggishly with red, slower now than it must have been before. Here and there, bone glinted horribly where the terrible _flagrum_ had clawed through the muscle. And still, the man's chest moved – breathing, but barely. He was so small – what was the indomitable will that kept him alive, when Beatnix had seen larger and stronger men perish under the lash? Beatnix stood, gazing at him, overcome with sorrow. It was too late. The man would be dead by morning.

The friend's stricken eyes rose to meet Beatnix's. Slowly, Beatnix shook his head.

"No," the big man whispered, his voice ragged. It was clear that the grief would explode into violence soon.

Beatnix tried to speak soothingly. "He is too badly hurt…"

"NO!" With a speed Beatnix would not have credited in someone of that bulk, the big man had already risen and grabbed him by the front of his tunic.

"I'm s…" Beatnix felt strangely calm as Obelix shook him. He didn't pretend to be a hero, and he was as alarmed by threats of physical violence as the next Gaul, but it was the proximity of the man's agony that shook him to his core. _So this is what it is to witness a soul torn asunder._

"DO SOMETHING!" the big man roared like a wounded beast, and instead of hitting him, let go of Beatnix as though he weighed no more than a doll. Probably the Gaulish taboos against hitting a druid, Beatnix thought as he fell to the floor in an undignified heap. He looked up, in time to see the large Gaul turn and punch the wall with all his strength.

A giant stone, perhaps four cubits square, crumbled under the man's fist as though it were made out of sand. Several smaller stones above it came loose and showered down in a cloud of dust. As the Gaul collapsed, weeping, beneath the hole in the wall, Beatnix thanked Belenos that the rock had been adjacent to a window, else the Gaul's superhuman strength would have brought the whole adjoining wall down and probably the rest of the hut with it.

Wait a minute.

Superhuman strength… Hut falling down… sky falling down… a village who feared nothing but the sky falling on their heads… a big fat man and a little man… the bet, the bet that even Beatnix in his remote forest hut had heard of…

"You are from the Armorican village that still holds out against the invaders," Beatnix breathed, his heart pounding.

The big man blinked. "How did you know that?"

Surprised at his own fearlessness, Beatnix found himself grabbing the man by the front of his breeches and shaking him, as much as was possible to shake someone of his mass. "The magic potion, man! There isn't a druid in Gaul who doesn't know of the magic powers of your druid, Getafix! With your strength, you must be on the potion!"

When the man still blinked helplessly, Beatnix forced himself to quiet his tone. "The potion won't close your friend's wounds," he said, more slowly, "but it can give him the strength to survive them. Give his body the chance to remake some of the blood he has lost. Quick," he couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice, "give me the potion, man! Your friend's life depends upon it!"

He didn't expect the man to burst into fresh tears, sobbing as though his heart would break.

It took a while, but Beatnix managed to piece together the story between Obelix's sobs. How Obelix – for that was the fat man's name – how Obelix had fallen into the magic potion as a little boy and his consequent superhuman strength, their current adventure, and his friend Asterix's misfortune in spilling his gourd. "Let me see it," Beatnix said, hushed.

At the sight of the flat, dismal little gourd, Beatnix's heart sank. "Three-fourths of a cup at most," he murmured, looking at the gourd. He looked from it to the small figure lying on the bed, the tortured heart already slowing its labored pumping, eager for its eternal rest. But then he looked up, seeing the misery in the big man's face. He took a deep breath, and made a decision. "We can but try."

Obelix knelt by Asterix, goblet of diluted potion clutched tight in his shaking hand. Beatnix had poured water into the gourd again and again, swishing it around and around, to gather up even the minutest drops of the magical concoction, dilute them into a drink that might save Asterix's life. "Asterix," he said softly. "Asterix, wake up. Potion's ready!"

There was no response, of course. Obelix felt cold take over his body as he shook Asterix gently. "Asterix," he said, repeating his friend's name over and over.

Beatnix looked up from the water he was boiling, seeing the big Gaul bending over his friend and getting no response. "Turn him on his side and lift him up," he snapped, reaching a decision.

"He's not waking up…" Panicked eyes rose to meet Beatnix's.

"I can see that. Do it, now."

The druid crossed over to the pair as Obelix sat down on the pallet-bed and pulled Asterix upwards, intending, it appeared, to rest his friend's head on his knee. His belly made it awkward, though, and so he pulled Asterix a little higher, until the small man ended up in much the position he had been in before, lying nearly vertical with his side pressed against his larger friend. "That's good enough," said Beatnix. "Give me the potion."

Obelix handed over the goblet. "Here you are," he said, voice unsteady.

"Thank you." Beatnix reached out and pinched the unconscious man's nose shut.

Obelix's eyes snapped up to him, outraged, as Asterix shuddered, flailed, and finally opened his mouth, gasping for air. It was clear that only the fact that he had an armful of his friend was stopping Obelix from punching Beatnix in the nose. "What do you think you're—"

"Everything I do from here onwards," Beatnix intoned sternly, "is going to hurt him. Cleaning the wounds will cause pain, dressing the wounds is going to cause pain. If you will not let me do what must be done, you can let him die. You're strong, you can certainly stop me. Choose, but choose now."

Obelix blinked. "You mean… the only way to save his life is to hurt him?"

"Yes," Beatnix said, not without sympathy.

"And… you can't help him without… without hurting him?"

"No. His wounds are too great." He added, "I wish it were possible," as an afterthought.

The big man's eyes closed, and he nodded, swallowing.

There was no time to waste. Beatnix ignored Obelix's tears and the waves of pain still coming off the two men, and poured the potion-laced water down Asterix's mouth. The unconscious man choked and spluttered in instinctive reaction, but Beatnix pressed his lips tight shut with both hands, unwilling to let a drop of the precious liquid escape. He found himself holding his breath, even as he struggled. If the man was too far gone, if he choked instead of swallowing, this was the end. Obelix would probably kill him, Beatnix reflected, so he wouldn't have time to regret it, but still…

"Asterix?" Obelix whispered. Beatnix jerked. In the time he'd been playing 'what-if', Asterix had swallowed the potion. There was a slight hint of color in his cheeks, and his breathing grew harsher, as if he was waking up.

Quickly, Beatnix dribbled a little more into the man's mouth, and this time there was no hesitation – he saw the Adam's apple moving as Asterix drank. "O Belisama, thank you," he said reverently, and placed the goblet to the patient's lips, letting him drink hungrily. When half of it was gone, he set it aside.

"Aren't you going to give him the rest of it?" Obelix asked, never taking his eyes off his friend.

"He'll need it when I'm done," Beatnix said regretfully. He scrutinized the patient. His color was definitely better, and his head was starting to move slightly against his friend's body. That would have to do.

The druid looked sternly at Obelix. "I'm going to clean his wounds. It's going to hurt. You have superhuman strength. If you tighten your grip on him, you might kill him. Only stay if you can control yourself."

Red-rimmed eyes blinked, and the big Gaul nodded.

Crossing the room, Beatnix retrieved a pan of water previously boiled. He had thought of using a cloth, but that would only cause more pain. Best to flush it all out. "Carry him to the doorstep," he instructed Obelix. No sense laying the man down in a dirty, soaked bed later.

As soon as the door opened, Beatnix felt freer; he had not realized how draining the two men's combined pain had been to him in such a small space. However, now was not the time to focus on himself. Still carrying the pan, he guided Obelix to the rainwater drain, then poured the water over his friend's blood-soaked back.

The reaction was instantaneous. Asterix shuddered, hands clenching into fists, head arching back. Obelix's arms started to tighten, but at a murderous glance from Beatnix, he consciously relaxed his muscles, only his hands fisting harmlessly, away from his friend. Beatnix poured more water, hoping to sluice away the congealing and dried blood without having to touch the tattered strips of shredded skin or the glistening-raw, flayed flesh at all… although Belenos knew the whips of the Romans weren't exactly free of contaminants…

He started as Asterix jerked and gasped, his eyes opening. "Asterix!" Obelix burst out.

But Obelix's joyous expression faded as he heard the agony in his friend's voice. "Can't – mustn't –"

"Ssh, Asterix," Obelix crooned. Beatnix would not have believed that such a gentle tone could come from the big warrior. Obelix pressed his cheek gently against Asterix's, and Beatnix felt an odd wave of warmth. "You're safe now, ssh."

But Asterix was still trapped in the torment of his mind. "…honor – of Gaul…" The blue eyes closed again, tears escaping and wetting his lashes. "Must… show dignity…"

"Asterix, you're here with me. You're safe."

"Obe…?" Bleary eyes blinked, and Asterix's hand reached out, groping blindly.

"I'm here." Obelix caught the searching hand at once, enfolded it in his larger one with exceeding gentleness. "You're at a druid's, you're safe," he choked out through his own tears. "You're with me."

Asterix's fingers curled around Obelix's, and his limp head rolled back and forth against his friend's body, as though reveling in the reality of his solid presence. "Good old—" The ragged breath hitched, and Asterix smiled through cracked, bitten lips. "Knew you'd come."

Obelix sobbed, once, aloud. "Always."

Beatnix stepped forward. Time enough for a reunion later. Now he had to treat the patient. "Asterix," he said, "I'm going to have to treat those wounds on your back, and it's going to be painful. A warrior like you, you can handle it, can't you?"

Only half-conscious, the injured man closed his eyes and nodded courageously, jaw firming. Obelix bent his head to his friend's. "Of course he can handle it," he said heartily. But then the big man's eyes came up to meet Beatnix's, pleading. "Just… don't hurt him too much."

Beatnix inclined his head, even as he poured more water over the gaping wounds. The strips of flesh on the patient's back, cut to ribbons by the lash, fluttered under the flow of water like torn fabric in the wind. Asterix jerked and groaned, his hand tightening convulsively around his friend's. The big man clasped his hand securely and held on, flinching every time his friend jerked against him, as though he felt the pain in his own body. His other hand strayed upwards to cradle the back of Asterix's head, clearly desperate to give comfort. "I'm sorry," Obelix whispered through his tears as the therapeutic torture continued, tenderly stroking his shuddering friend's hair as he shuddered along with him, rubbing the back of his hand as Asterix held on through his agony. "I'm sorry."

The two men's combined pain, physical and emotional, was making it hard for Beatnix to work, but he sternly gathered his training about him. Flush out the superficial wounds and the flayed flesh, then the harder task of cleaning out the deeper gashes. By Belisama, these Romans were animals. Civilization his foot, thought Beatnix as he washed the dried and fresh blood. The _flagrum_ was designed to strip the skin quickly from the victim's back, and on this slightly built Gaul, it had turned into a lethal tool. What kind of monsters…

"O Druid!" Obelix's voice cut through Beatnix's horror. "Please, I think he's…"

Beatnix cursed as he stepped back. He had forgotten the first rule of medicine: focus not on the wound, but on the patient. Asterix had clearly had about as much as he could take. The patient was all but convulsing with shock and pain, teeth audibly chattering. Obelix's arms were curled about him, one hand still holding onto Asterix's, the other cupping the back of the blond head. The big man's cheek was pressed tight to his friend's, voice soft, whispering words of comfort into his ear, making even Beatnix feel oddly calmed. But Obelix's eyes, when he looked up at Beatnix, were blazing with helpless pity and desperation.

"He's had enough," Beatnix said briskly, setting the pitcher down with a decisive _clunk_. A lot of good it would do to clean the wounds and lose the patient. "Carry him over by the fire."

The big man didn't need to be told twice. "There, there, Asterix," he murmured. "It's all over…" Still murmuring reassurances, he carried his shuddering friend over to the large open fireplace, settling into a corner where they would be warm but where the shredded flesh of Asterix's back wouldn't be exposed to the direct heat from the flames. Obelix rocked him gently, trying to soothe the violent shakes that rattled through his friend's overtaxed body. Beatnix brought him the half-full goblet of diluted potion, and Obelix shifted the hand that was holding Asterix's head to hold the cup to his friend's lips. "A potion a day keeps the Romans away," Obelix smiled encouragingly through the tears that still flowed down his cheeks, as he patiently held it up until Asterix had taken a few sips of it.

Before Asterix could finish the precious liquid, the druid quickly took the goblet away: they would need some for later. Obelix appeared about to object, but he sighed with relief as the worst of Asterix's trembling eased and he melted back into Obelix's embrace. The big man's hand moved up again and resumed stroking the sweaty blond hair. Meanwhile, Beatnix crossed the room, stowed the potion, and returned to the pair in a flash, opening the earthen pot that held his strongest salve. "Sit," he commanded shortly. "I need to be able to reach him."

Obelix sank onto one of the stone benches that flanked the fireplace, resettling Asterix in his arms with infinite care, making him as comfortable as possible against him. "There, there, Asterix," he murmured. "The druid is here. It'll be all right."

Beatnix quickly scooped up a handful of the salve and smeared it over the dangling shreds of flesh and lumps of raw meat that had once been a human back. He knew it was his best salve, made with a base of honey to prevent contamination and stop bleeding, infused with herbs to fight infection and speed healing. Still, the patient shuddered and moaned as he put it on. His small body shook violently, and he clung desperately to his friend, as though the big man could shelter him from the pain. For his part, Obelix gulped back a sob and clung gently to Asterix too, rocking him back and forth, holding on as though he could absorb some of Asterix's suffering into himself. Beatnix winced at their combined pain, yet wondered at its mysterious undercurrent of peace. He reached out again, coating his patient's maimed back with salve, a chill rising from his hand up his body at the sensation of the flayed flesh beneath his fingers. His eyes rose for a moment to orient himself, and caught the eyes of Asterix's big friend, steadily shedding tears of helpless empathy and impotent love. "A man-child too long," Beatnix found himself blurting, "grown old in a day."

But there was no time to unravel the threads of the big man's psyche. The druid turned his attention to his patient, coating his cuts and wounds thickly with salve, occasionally shifting his hands left and right to treat the places where the lash had curled around Asterix's side and laid bare strips off his ribs. The warrior never made a sound, but he was shaking with weakness, tears of pain slipping from his squeezed-shut eyes as the paste was applied. Obelix wiped them away steadily with his thumb, their tears mingling as he pressed his cheek to Asterix's tear-stained face.

After Beatnix had been working for a while, there was a gentle sigh, and the patient relaxed into his friend's embrace; the urgent piercing sensation in the air faded as the salve eased Asterix's physical pain. Still holding Asterix, Obelix kept wiping away his tears, rocking and consoling him, and soon enough, Beatnix sensed the lightening, not only of the pain of the flesh, but of the ache of loneliness in the poor warrior's heart. The small body beneath his hands grew tranquil, the tortured man's psyche soothed and consoled by his friend's heartfelt sympathy and tenderness.

And yet, there remained another undercurrent of emotional pain, strong and distracting as ever. It stung at Beatnix until, finally, he looked up at Obelix. "Your pain," Beatnix said slowly, realizing it as he gave his thoughts voice, "is greater than his."

The big man only stared at him blankly. Beatnix was forced to conclude that Obelix the Gaul would always and forever put his own pain last when it came to his friend – probably not even admit that he _was _in pain. Dismissing it with a mental shrug, he worked until he was satisfied that all of the tattered skin and deep gashes had been salved, then set the bowl aside. He didn't dare cut off the shreds of skin, or bandage or cover the wounds in any way – all he could do was let the whole mess breathe, and keep the patient comfortable by the fire. "Get those wet clothes off him," Beatnix instructed, "and lay him on the bed while I find him something to wear."

Obelix complied, carefully laying Asterix on the bed again and stripping off the blood-soaked tunic and leggings. The man was barely conscious, eyes drooping shut. Beatnix handed Obelix a pair of soft cotton trousers that had grown too tight for him – even this outgrown garment would be huge on the tiny Gaul, but just as well not to chafe any part of his skin. He spared an idle thought for the trouble he would have finding something to replace the big fat Gaul's blood-stiffened breeches when he was done getting his friend covered up. He looked over at Obelix, trying to divine his size.

Beatnix paused, struck by the tableau before him. Silhouetted against the firelight, the pair's aura was almost palpable as the big man bent over his friend. There was nothing but the glow of unadulterated, selfless love in in his touch as he eased the fabric over his friend's hips and modestly covered him up. "Not too cold?" Obelix asked softly. Beatnix couldn't see Asterix's face, but Obelix must have seen some reaction, because he nodded, "That's good."

"Give him the rest of the potion," Beatnix instructed. Obelix faithfully complied, laying a gentle hand against Asterix's cheek and lifting his head so he could swallow. Beatnix sincerely hoped the pair's faith in him wasn't misplaced. Calling the goblet's watered-down contents 'potion' was optimistic, to say the least. But one worked with what one had. What else was there to be done?

Beatnix watched carefully. After he had drunk the water, the sick man's color improved slightly, and he relaxed into the bed, falling still. "Asterix?" his friend asked, a note of panic in his voice.

"It's all right," the druid reassured him. "He needs to rest. His body will have a lot of work to do repairing the damage those accursed barbarians did to him." The rage that flamed in Obelix's eyes burned hotter than the fire, and Beatnix hastened to distract him. "We need to find you something to wear."

The big man looked down at his filthy breeches, soaked through and stiffening with his friend's blood, as though seeing them for the first time. His hands fisted in his waistband, and his face crumpled. "…so much…" The words were barely audible.

"Come on," Beatnix said hurriedly. "Bringing dirt in is dangerous to him. You have to wash yourself and put on something clean, now."

"Dirt is dangerous to him?" Obelix blinked.

"Yes," said Beatnix in his firmest I'm-the-druid-so-I-know-best tone. He was in no mood for arguments.

But Obelix surprised him once again: he was already gone, rushing outside to wash, his voice trailing behind him. "Why didn't you say so?"

Later, they settled in for the night. After washing his and Asterix's soiled clothes at the pump and hanging them on a rock to dry, Obelix had been able to create some makeshift breeches – more of a toga, really – from an old length of linen, and Beatnix had spread out some hay on the floor for them both. But it appeared that Obelix wasn't ready to go to sleep just yet: perched on a stool by Asterix's bedside, he sat holding his hand, quietly watching his sleeping face. It was clear he was trying to avoid looking at his friend's injuries, but every so often his gaze seemed to be drawn to the savaged back, and he would take a deep, shuddering breath and brush tears from his eyes. Again the odd warmth rolled over Beatnix, like a respite from the chill winter wind. He was too tired now to divine the source, though: all he cared was that it wasn't a threat.

"Go to sleep," Beatnix said to Obelix. "He'll need you in the morning."

"In a minute," Obelix replied.

The minute turned into several, and still Obelix sat by the bed, watching Asterix sleep in the flickering firelight. Eventually, Beatnix drifted off, leaving Obelix the Gaul still watching over his friend.


	6. Chapter 6

Notes: Thanks to everyone who's given their support. It means more than you probably know.

* * *

The forest birdsong filtered through the druid's sleep, bright and heavy with the morning dew. Beatnix shifted. His back wasn't as comfortable as usual—Oh, by Belisama! It all came back to him in a rush: the battered and tortured Gaul, his stricken friend, the frantic work that both of them had done, and only just snatched him from the jaws of death by a miracle. And now – had he survived the night?

"Ouch." Beatnix wasn't a spring chicken anymore, and his body strongly protested the suddenness with which he jumped up off the straw-covered floor. He was too tense to care, though, too eager to see if the wounded Gaul was unlike others who had had similar scourgings. The Roman garrison of Divodurum were vicious. He wouldn't be the first man Beatnix had worked on frantically, only to see his exhausted body give up the fight by sunrise.

He looked long and hard at the sleeping Gaul, but in the flickering firelight, diluted by the light of day, it was impossible to tell whether the man still breathed. "O Dis Pater, father of all the Gauls, do not take him yet. Please, let him be alive," the druid whispered. Taking up his golden sickle from where he had lain it down last night, he polished the blade on his sleeve and bent to the wounded warrior, laying the blade by his cheek, close to his nose and mouth, desperately hoping to see the reflective surface mist over.

"What do you think you're doing!"

The blade clanged to the floor as Beatnix found himself grabbed by the front of his robes and dangled high in the air. Of course – the man's overprotective friend, fierce as a mother bear with only one cub. He pictured the scene as Obelix must have seen it: an unfamiliar druid standing over an unconscious Asterix, holding a blade at his friend's neck. And so, the big man had followed what Beatnix suspected was his usual pattern: violence first, questions later. Beatnix couldn't entirely blame the overwrought man. He hadn't even thought of Obelix in his haste to make sure Asterix was still alive.

"Put me down," Beatnix said coldly. "If I wanted to kill your friend, I would hardly need a blade. All I would need to do is cease to care for him for a few hours."

The words were cruel, but Beatnix felt no more than a small pang as Obelix dropped him and burst into tears. "I'm sorry. I'm… How is he?"

"Now look here," Beatnix snapped, picking himself up off the floor. He opened his mouth to say more, but the pain radiating from Obelix, the helpless, heartbroken love, was so poignant that the druid relented. "Pull yourself together, man!" Beatnix gave the broad shoulder a little shake. "Come." He shoved the golden sickle into Obelix's unresisting hand. "Hold the blade like this." The druid guided the fat man's hand down to Asterix's face. "You had better hope that it mists over."

Both men held their breath. Obelix's hand trembled slightly as he held the reflective surface up to Asterix's parted lips.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Beatnix could see the effort it took for Obelix to hold the sickle steady. His heart sank as the flat of the blade remained steadfastly shiny, reflecting the firelight, the square of the cottage window, the shades of his and Obelix's reflections. But then, before his eyes, his own image in the burnished surface disappeared, then Obelix's, then the entire room in miniature, obscured by a fine mist, curling in a delicate patina over the mirrored gold. "Toutatis be praised," whispered the druid. "He breathes."

Obelix handed the sickle back, already on his knees; he took up Asterix's limp hand and cradled it carefully in both of his. "Why doesn't he wake up?"

"Be glad of it," Beatnix frowned as he bent to examine the man's wounds. "The gods are merciful to him. If he awoke now, without salve and without potions, he would be in such torment that it would drive him mad, and all the herbs in the forest would not suffice to ease it."

"O Asterix…" It was only when Beatnix observed Obelix pressing Asterix's hand to his cheek, biting his lip in an effort to contain his sobs, that the druid realized he might have spoken a bit too harshly. Well, too bad – he didn't have time to consider the feelings of the family, he was here to save the patient.

He continued his examination, and placed a hand to the man's forehead – not bad, not bad at all. There was the slight warmth that came with any injury this severe, but not the fever that beckoned to Death. "Not giving up without a fight, eh? You, my friend," the druid muttered approvingly, "are a Gaulish warrior inside and out." He looked up at Obelix. "Heart of a lion, am I right?"

"He's the…" Obelix gulped. "There's nobody braver than him." He patted Asterix's hand. "No-one at all."

The druid nodded sympathetically, and turned his attention to his patient. The man could be mistaken for a hunchback: his back was swollen into a monstrous purple balloon, stretched tight and shiny like a water-skein filled to bursting. Tattered strips of drying skin draped over raw flesh slowly scabbing over, while the sides that still had skin were furrowed with puckered gashes and welts that oozed blood and clear fluid. It looked frightening, but actually, drainage was a positive sign, would bring the swelling down… "Open the door and pull that other curtain aside for me, there's a good Gaul," he said, still carefully examining. A scrambling noise was heard, and then the room was flooded in daylight. Beatnix bent to examine the damage more closely. Beneath and to the sides of the edema, the man's torso was one solid bruise, purple and blue and deep black, mottled even on his chest, where the whip had wrapped round his small body. Beatnix would bet his druid's degree that there were cracked bones beneath that swelling…

His head jerked up at a choked gasp. Obelix was staring straight at the damage in the cold light of day. His left hand was at his mouth, the knuckle of his forefinger jammed between his teeth. All the color had drained from his face, and tears spilled steadily down his cheeks. Beatnix was opening his mouth to say something or other when the big man choked out, "O Druid? How is he?"

"Well…" Beatnix began.

"Y—yes?" Obelix appeared to tear his eyes from the sight of his friend's mutilated body, and he looked up, trusting as a child. The force of the man's helpless, desperate love for his friend flowed around Beatnix like a flux of fragrant air, so soft and solid that he could almost lean against its supportive walls. By this time, Beatnix was so punch-drunk from all the emotions that he couldn't even think up a suitable sarcastic retort to the effect that Obelix had practically accused him, the attending druid, of trying to slit Asterix's throat not a few moments ago.

Beatnix bent again to the patient. "I'll be able to tell you better when I examine him." And he did. The damage, though extensive, would heal, given time and care. The real cause for concern was the internal bleeding, the shock to the man's entire system, and the risk of infection in the tissue pulped by the lash. Terrible, of course, but he could detect no infection, no pus or signs of disease. If there had been, he was well aware that nothing would have saved the warrior. As it was, his life was still hanging by a thread. Beatnix wished there were more he could do, but all they could do for him was reapply the salve, give him more of the diluted magic potion, start him on potions to ward off infection, and hope he woke up soon to get some nourishment in him, as well as something for his pain.

"His life," Beatnix finally said soberly, "hangs like a feather in the wind." Ignoring the big man's gasp, Beatnix went on. "I have seen many men, stronger and more powerfully built than your friend, perish from scourgings less brutal than the one he has endured." He shook his head, still mystified. "I cannot fathom what miracle keeps him still alive. I suppose it must be the magic potion and his indomitable will." No reason to sugar-coat it. "By all rights, he should be gone already. Though I am very glad he still lives."

"O Asterix…" Obelix whispered, holding Asterix's cold hand close to his own face, his tears slipping down the man's bruised knuckles. That odd warmth from the previous night brushed around Beatnix again.

"He may yet recover," Beatnix said. "He has survived the night, which is more than I would have thought, given his condition when you…" Realizing he wasn't helping, he shut up.

Manfully gulping back a sob, Obelix shut his eyes tight and pressed his face into the palm of his injured friend's hand as though, all unconscious as Asterix was, he could still give Obelix strength. "Asterix," he whispered, "please…" Blindly, Obelix turned his face sideways, choking back tears, and pressed his lips to the back of Asterix's hand, as a mother might kiss a baby's newborn fingers, or a devoted young soldier the hand of a well-loved commanding officer—and Beatnix was all but knocked backwards by the nurturing energy.

"By Belisama." The veil fell, revealing the mystery of the warmth and peace he had felt before. It was something he had read of when he was younger, but never yet witnessed: the soul-bond. He blinked, staring at the big man weeping over his friend. To look at the big fellow, one would not think him capable of generating such energies, but there was no denying it. This was the famed bond of warriors, of brothers-in-arms: the love that in health brought peace and joy, but in sickness brought only pain. Obelix the Gaul's heartfelt empathy for his friend was a palpable force that filled the room, intense in its way as a healing balm. Beatnix could feel the pang that squeezed every beat of Obelix's heart while his friend suffered, could sense the big man's frustration at his inability to ease it, his pained, thwarted desire to only and ever and always bring his friend and soul-mate comfort and joy.

_Soul-mate._ That was it, then, the mysterious other factor assisting the magic potion and Asterix's indomitable will, keeping him alive when by all rights he should be dead. Teetering on the brink of death, he had had the good fortune to be lifted and supported by his friend, who had, though his mind and heart and his very flesh, infused him with strength and innocent love – the love shared by those whose souls were bonded by the gods, paradoxically selfless and selfish in one: a love whose only reward, its greatest joy, was the well-being of the beloved.

"Asterix," Obelix was still murmuring, his tears falling on his friend's hand and on his face, repeating his soul-friend's name over and over, sticking as close as he could, as though it were instinct to stay near._ I should have my druid's degree revoked, _Beatnix thought as he sat there, blinking like an idiot. Now the mystery was solved, of why the man hadn't died from his wounds on the way there, of why he'd survived the night: his friend had been close to him all the time, oftentimes touching him, opening his life-energy to him. All unconsciously, Obelix had been giving Asterix all he had, constantly willing his friend to partake of his own health and strength, to take what he needed to survive. Unconsciously too, Asterix had trusted him, and drunk his fill of his friend's loving energy, through the air he breathed and through his bare skin, absorbing enough strength to live. Live, and maybe, maybe, Beatnix thought, maybe heal, too.

Beatnix shoved the salve into Obelix's hands. "Here. Apply this."

"Uh…?" The man was so astonished that he nearly dropped the bowl, unwilling to let go of Asterix's hand straight away.

"Your healing flux is more beneficial to him, due to the bond you share, and your ministrations will be more effective than mine because you share your life-energy with him."

Obelix blinked. Finally he repeated intelligently, "Uh?"

Beatnix pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look—there's something about the care you give him that strengthens his will to live."

Obelix looked from the druid to the bowl. "Uh?"

Still pinching the bridge of his nose, the druid jerked his head towards Asterix. "It'll help him more if you do it."

Obelix took the bowl. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

Beatnix contemplated saying he'd been explaining for the past ten minutes, and gave it up as a bad job. "Just… go ahead."

Obelix reached into the bowl, but then his face took on a tinge of panic. "But you're the druid…"

"You want to help him, don't you?"

Obelix's eyes filled with even more panic. "But… I can't even knock on a door without breaking it down. And he's—" he looked down at his friend and swallowed, "so – so badly hurt…"

"Be gentle," said Beatnix. "But it will heal him better if you do it. I'm sure of it," he said, injecting a touch of command into his voice. Seeing the hesitation in the big man's eyes, he added encouragingly, "I'll help you."

Beatnix held the bowl for Obelix, speaking reassuringly as Obelix filled his big hands with the salve, lowering them reverently to his friend's tattered back. When his sausage-like fingers touched the ballooned, raw flesh, the man's face crumpled, screwing up as if in pain. Tears slipped down his cheeks to disappear into his mustache; his hands were shaking as he gently, carefully spread the medicine. Beatnix wasn't surprised; the jelly-like ruin of a human torso felt pretty gruesome, even through the thick layer of salve. Through it all, he noted the lightness of the man's touch, the gentleness of those huge, calloused hands that had, only last night, punched through solid rock. "Go on," he kept encouraging Obelix, watching him flinch and grimace as though _he_ were the one in pain. He handled it well, finishing the swollen areas in good time. But when the big man's fingers fetched up against the loose-hanging strips where the _flagrum_ had torn the flesh to ribbons, he jerked back violently, not in revulsion but in sorrow, clumsily scrubbing at his tearful face with the backs of his hands.

Beatnix patted him on the shoulder, barely making out Obelix's broken words: "O Asterix …if I'd known… done anything… anything at all…"

"It's all right," soothed the druid, setting down the bowl. "You're doing all you can…"

"No, I'm not." Obelix gulped. "All my fault. It's all…"

"You weren't the one to beat him, were you?"

Obelix flinched violently at the words 'beat him'. "I _left _him!"

"Did you know they were coming for him?"

"I…" Obelix bit back a sob, trying to speak. "I knew it was dangerous, and I left him all alone."

"You've learned your lesson for next time," the druid tried.

This time the big man couldn't hold back his sobs. "I made a mistake… and _he _paid for it!" Obelix scrubbed the salve off his hands against his clothes and sobbed, burying his face in his hands. "He's always paying for my stupidity…"

"Stop… being silly… idiot…"

In unison, both men's heads swiveled towards Asterix. "What?"

Asterix's voice was a wrecked whisper. "…Obelix… always been… over-sensitive…"

"Asterix!" In a flash, Obelix was on his knees by his bedside, both hands clasping his friend's. "You're awake!"

Asterix's hand curled around Obelix's, his teeth clenching in pain. The druid watched in awe as the little warrior forced the words out through pale, cracked lips – if it wasn't for the salve and his friend's borrowed life-force, the man would have been crying out in agony. Now, though he was clearly suffering, he managed to shift his head a little, and meet his friend's eyes. "…wouldn't be able… to do half the things I do… without you."

"Hush, Asterix. Hush." Obelix whispered urgently. "Save your strength. Don't talk. Don't move. Don't tire yourself. Rest." He patted the back of Asterix's hand, still clenched tight about his own, and smoothed back the tousled blond hair. "You just rest, all right? The druid and I will take care of everything."

"Actually, since you're awake," Beatnix said, "this is a good time for a potion to ward off infection. Then when next you wake,"_ (if next you wake, _he thought silently – he knew that sometimes these awakenings were the flame that burned brief and bright before going out for good) "we'll see about giving you a potion for pain, and some soup to build your strength up."

The wounded man blinked hazily up at him, but made no reply. "This is the attending druid," Obelix said helpfully. "We're in his hut."

"Greetings… O Druid…" panted Asterix through clenched teeth. His eyes squeezed shut, and he whispered to his friend: "I am a bit… thirsty."

"Yes. Whippings seem to leave men thirsty," Beatnix blurted. Toutatis, he was being pretty callous, unable to find tactful words in his astonishment at the small man's fortitude. He wondered how Asterix was managing to be coherent, with the pain he must have been in. "Greet me later," he rapped out, not unkindly, swinging the storage cupboard open and retrieving his special anti-infection potion – it looked and tasted disgusting, made as it was from bread-mold, but it had a powerful magic in it that prevented wounds from suppurating. "For now, your friend has the right idea. You need to rest, sleep, let your body heal. But first, drink this." He handed Obelix the gourd of foul-tasting potion. "Give it to him slowly."

Obelix gently cupped Asterix's head in his hand, lifting him enough to sip the potion. Asterix spluttered a little at first, but dutifully drank it all down. His friend lowered his head back to the pillow, and he was asleep again in seconds.

"It's a good sign, isn't it?" Obelix occupied himself with fussing over his friend, wiping his mouth and settling him more comfortably.

"We shall see," Beatnix said gravely. "In the meantime, we need to prepare food and medicine." He ran mentally through his stocks: he had plenty of herbs for healing, but he was a little short on nourishment for the weakened warrior to begin rebuilding himself. "How good a hunter are you?" he asked.

Obelix looked up. "Not too shabby, if I do say so myself."

"So you could get, say, a rabbit – if your friend needed one?"

The big man looked from Asterix to Beatnix. "What's wrong with boar?"

"I have no weapons."

"Don't change the subject. What's wrong with boar?"

Beatnix blinked, then smiled. "Why, nothing." He nodded. "A boar would be fine." Of course, a man of Obelix's size and superhuman strength would be comfortable hunting boar with his bare hands. And speaking of superhuman strength… "Was I only dreaming," Beatnix said slowly, gazing at his perfect, intact cottage wall and the spotless floor before it, "or did you punch half of my wall to dust last night?"

Obelix had the grace to look abashed. "Sorry about that. I… I wasn't myself."

Beatnix waved a dismissive hand. "That's not what I meant. I mean, my wall didn't magically repair itself, did it?"

Obelix actually blushed. "Well, I didn't get much sleep last night. Thought I'd keep busy. Besides, Asterix might have caught cold."

"But…" Beatnix finished his task, wiped his hands, and walked over to the wall. It was pristine, the stone meticulously carved out and fitting like a glove, surrounded by smaller stones and carefully packed in with clay. "When did you…" he looked over at Obelix. "What… Are you a builder?"

The man still clutched his friend's hand tightly, but a sliver of pride crept into his voice. "I'm a menhir delivery man by trade. Well," he appeared to catch himself, "menhir-maker, too. I make menhirs and then I deliver them."

Beatnix raised his eyebrows. Unlike many of his fellow-Gauls, he was aware of the importance of the menhir: he knew the magical uses that some druids had for menhirs, and their role in the building of dolmens. He looked from the big Gaul to the beautifully-executed wall, the perfectly shaped rock in its center. A skilled stonecutter, then… "But how did you shape it so well? You didn't have any tools."

"Well… I did sort of borrow the pick that was at the back of the house, next to all those stones."

Beatnix frowned. He had bought it to repair his chimney, and then that accursed builder Illogix had got the idea that he, Beatnix, had dealings with the dead, and ran off in the middle of the job. These city folk were crazy. "But there's no hammer."

Obelix just nodded sagely. "It does make not splitting the bigger rocks a bit more difficult."

The druid stared at him for a long moment, then began to laugh.

"I know what you're going to do with your days, young feller-me-lad."


	7. Chapter 7

Notes: Sort of a continuation of the previous...

* * *

_Gods!_

Asterix opened his mouth in a silent gasp, boiling water scalding his back—He clamped his jaw shut, trapping his shout of pain inside his mouth. He couldn't stop it escaping in a groan. But _gods_—Asterix writhed, he was a warrior but he couldn't take this, he would die from the pain—

"He's awake!"

-O Toutatis, the pain—His body was boiling. Boiling oil—bubbling over his back, blistering and lifting his skin off the flesh—he couldn't—no—stop the pain, _please—_

"O Druid, hurry up! He's—he seems…"

A hand gripped his, and Asterix, flailing, grasped it desperately. "Hold on, Asterix," a deep voice rumbled. "Potion's coming… just hang on…"

Asterix gritted his teeth against the liquid fire in his back, but a stifled sound forced its way out from between his clenched teeth. The deep voice bellowed some sort of instruction, ragged with panic, but Asterix was too lost in the flames eating him alive—all he could do was gasp for breath and clutch at the hand holding his, illogically seeming like a lifeline that could maybe pull him out—

"Here, Asterix. Here you are—go on..." It took Asterix a moment to register the cool, smooth glass pressed against his lips, the new sensation cutting a path through the searing pain—he managed to focus on it, obeying the strong voice that softly repeated, "Drink. Drink…" He was hardly in control of his own faculties, but he managed to force his mouth to open, his throat to swallow.

Suddenly he could breathe. "Yes, yes, go on, Asterix, that's it," the deep voice coaxed. Asterix drank, soft fingers massaging his throat, helping him swallow. Little by little the fog cleared. The wall of flame under his skin cooled and died, leaving him dizzy and trembling with the memory of pain, limp and drained against the surface he lay on.

Slowly he registered a hand carding through his hair, soft words rumbling against his ear. His vision focused, revealing the inside of – he was hesitant, his fuzzy brain taking a moment to place it – a hut. His cheek rested against smooth cotton, which covered a soft, pliant surface with a gentle rise and fall. A red braid swung before his eyes.

_"Obelix," _Asterix said out loud_. _Now he'd thought it, his mind caught up with his senses, cataloguing the timbre of the rumbling voice, still murmuring comfort, the scent of his friend's lightly freckled, perpetually sunburnt skin. Asterix took in a breath to say more, but wet phlegm clotted his breath, and he choked, the involuntary jerk of his body sending lightning-bolts of pain through his back.

"That's enough of that. Quiet down, now," came a stern voice over Obelix's shoulder. Asterix, gasping for breath after clearing the clot blocking his throat, forced his eyes open for an instant. Strange Gaulish man in a multicolored tunic, adorned with beads and flowers and Toutatis knew what else. Then Asterix clamped his eyes shut and wheezed loudly as the fluid in his lungs bubbled up again.

"He can't breathe!" Obelix cried out in panic, body vibrating beneath him. A strong hand clasped Asterix's, and he gripped it tightly, trying to brace himself as he fought for air.

"Keep him upright," said the new, unfamiliar voice. "I need to get…" the voice receded, becoming unintelligible. "Here we are." The man's voice was close by again, in front of Asterix, another gourd at his lips. "Try to take a sip of this."

Coughing out another glob of phlegm, Asterix gasped in some delicious air, then took an obedient sip. The obstruction in his chest seemed to reduce in size. An unfamiliar hand, he noted – _druid? _– was smearing a strong-smelling salve on his throat and air passage. And he could breathe, Gods, he could _breathe! _Air, delicious air, thank all the gods, air…

"Now this." Another gourd, another potion – a tiny sip this time. Obediently, Asterix drank. The taste was familiar. Wasn't this…

Almost immediately, bolts of lightning pounded down Asterix's veins, and he shuddered and stiffened as the magic potion took effect. _Wait, magic potion? Wasn't it all spilt in the Roman barracks…?_

The mental image of the Roman barracks—_flagstones splattered with his blood, manacles, agony—_blindsided him, and he flinched, startling and burying his face into Obelix's shoulder. "There, there," Obelix soothed immediately. A gentle hand came round to cradle the back of his head, stroking his hair softly, and Asterix leaned into Obelix, savouring the feeling of safety and comfort. _It's over, _he said to himself,_ it's over._

The timbre of Obelix's voice had changed: he was clearly speaking to someone else. "I thought you said the potion would stop his pain!"

"It has," said the –druid's? – voice soothingly. "He's a man, not a menhir. He's had a terrible shock…"

As the strange man explained to Obelix, Asterix opened his eyes and looked around again. Things were pleasantly clearer, his vision not so blurred, the fog mostly cleared from his brain. "You're… the druid…? Did I catch your name?"

"Beatnix the druid, at your service."

"Thank you, O Beatnix…" Speaking was a great effort, and Asterix, suddenly dizzy, laid his head back down on Obelix's shoulder. Immediately, his best friend's big, warm hand was back, cupping his head tenderly. Asterix tried to extend proper thanks, for the druid had surely saved his life, but found he could not. He was panting as though he had been running for miles, and although his mind was clear, a great weakness was overtaking him. "Forgive me, O Druid, I seem to…"

The strange druid chuckled cheerfully. "O Asterix of Armorica, I hereby forgive you for almost dying. You've only just joined the land of the living. Now just rest and let your friend take care of you, hmm? That's all I ask."

Obelix's fingers were gentle, parting the roots of his hair, thumb massaging the base of his skull, and Asterix sighed with contentment. It was odd, but he felt as though strength were somehow pumping into him, making him less ill, less feeble. As he drifted into restful sleep, he heard the druid's voice fading into the soft blackness: "Save your strength. I'll be asking you to eat later."

* * *

It was much later, at night, when Beatnix and Obelix were performing the nightly wound care for a sleeping Asterix, Obelix with his chair pulled up to the bed, gently salving the wrists rubbed raw by the iron cuffs, that Obelix murmured, "I can't help thinking… this reminds me…"

"Reminds you?" Beatnix looked questioningly at Obelix, who cleared his throat uncomfortably, bending to wrap a bandage around his friend's right arm.

"Yes, well. When we were little, about five… before I fell into the magic potion…" The big man seemed to be embarrassed. "Well, I got… picked on a lot. The other boys liked to thump me."

_"You?!"_

Obelix lightly tied off the linen, laid down Asterix's arm, and scooted his stool around the bed to take up the other. "Yes, well… I was a bit of an Amita Sara in those days. And Asterix – he always stood up for me. He was always defending me from them. He didn't manage it very well – it was just the two of us against all the village boys, well, just him, really, I didn't like to fight – and I still ended up getting thumped, but…" He trailed off, focusing very hard on the salve he was spreading over Asterix's left wrist.

"But just having someone on your side was enough to make you feel better," the druid said quietly.

The dark eyes snapped up to meet Beatnix's. "How did you…"

The druid smiled. "It's common enough. Go on."

"He'd end up black and blue most times, defending me." Obelix took a deep breath, audibly swallowing a lump in his throat. "He always said he liked a good punch-up, so long as no-one was really hurt. But there was this one time…" Obelix finished salving and started wrapping, "they decided to pretend I was a large body of Roman troops, and they were the Gauls fighting me. I got thumped pretty badly, and I got a split lip and a black eye." Beatnix frowned, but Obelix was already continuing. "I didn't mind them having a bit of fun, but, well, Asterix was furious. When they were finished with me, he picked me up, took me to the stream and washed my face. Then he took my handkerchief and his and made a cold compress for my eye."

The druid listened, knowing that there was more.

"Things changed after that, but I never forgot that time, him taking care of me. It's odd. I can't seem to explain it…" Obelix tied off the bandage, then sighed, and stared out of the window at a stray dog trotting by.

"Your pet?" asked Beatnix.

"Hm? No." Obelix turned back to the druid. "I… It… When Asterix did that, it felt as though he was a grown-up. He was only little, same as me, but he was so…"

"Authoritative?"

Obelix nodded. "Yes. As though he'd take care of everything. And it wasn't just that, he was so…" he took a moment to search for words, "_kind_ to me. He acted… not like someone my age. It was like being taken care of by my Mum. I've always," the man's plump fingers traced patterns on the sheet, "always trusted him to, um, to take care of things. Afterwards. After that day, I mean."

Beatnix smiled, warmed by the thought of this giant pledging himself to the tiny warrior for life over a childhood act of kindness. But the big man wasn't finished. "I've always felt he was the grown-up," Obelix said, sorrow seeping into his voice. "I've never had to be the grown-up." Obelix raised his head, but kept his eyes studiously on his hands, fingers twisting awkwardly together. "Until now."

Beatnix thought for a moment. "It's not easy with the roles reversed, is it?" he finally prompted gently.

"Hm?"

"It's hard to see him helpless."

Obelix nodded vehemently.

"He'll get better. You know that. And it's thanks to you."

"Don't care about that," the big man shrugged. "Just as long as he's all right."


	8. Chapter 8

Notes: For the person who restored my faith in myself - you know who you are. Thank you.

* * *

They settled into a routine. Every day Obelix would go out and hunt, and Beatnix would cook. He had never been so well-fed, Beatnix thought as he salted and cured some of the meat to see him through when the two men had gone on their way. He'd stored Obelix's precious shopping bag in a hollow near a subterranean stream that kept things ice-cold, assuring him that their food would still be in good condition when they finally went on their way: he was fortunate in having this cold storage, as it made an excellent larder.

Beatnix also got into the habit of setting aside a bone for the little stray dog they had seen that last night: it had trotted around the house several times before settling into a spot on the doorstep sometime around the second day. The druid privately thought that the dog, as dogs did, had sensed the pair's soul-bond and quietly decided to stay within its aura. It wouldn't have been the first time a pet had claimed its master, although that was more the province of cats. The little fellow seemed to have taken a shine to Obelix, following him about when he was outside. Obelix sometimes smiled to see him. In fact, the only times the big Gaul had smiled, so far, were when he petted the dog, or spoke to Asterix. Obelix had even taken to giving the dog food, although the big man didn't tend to leave many leftovers.

Asterix was an entirely different story, though, lacking in appetite, and still unable to feed himself. The patient was out of immediate danger, but still very poorly, and weaker than a wild boar piglet. Although his pulped back remained uninfected, which boded well, his wounds were constantly leaking clear fluid mingled with blood. His torso was one solid bruise, and he was still incapacitated by his crippling agony. He couldn't move; his friend had to sit him up, lay him down, even turn him from one side to the other. Beatnix handed over the job of feeding him to Obelix, who did it only too willingly. He sat by his friend on the bed several times a day, feeding him with his own hands and coaxing him to eat, persuading him to take another bite of boar, or one more sip of broth. Mesmerized, Beatnix watched the infinite care with which this man with the strength of forty oxen handled his friend's broken body, how the hands that had smashed solid rock now tenderly cared for cracked bone and crushed flesh, with such love that, despite the pain, Asterix willingly gave himself over to his friend. Beatnix was glad, for he knew what the pair of them didn't: that with every touch, the big man gave his smaller friend an infusion of his own life-force as a loving gift, helping him heal just a hairsbreadth more.

And he _was_ healing. Morning, noon and night Beatnix brought out the herbal paste, and Obelix salved Asterix's back and wrists, stroking the matted yellow hair and murmuring words of encouragement. It was obviously galling for the small warrior to be so helpless, but the man had the wisdom to know when to shelve his pride. And there were times, too, when he could see that Asterix needed it – not only the medicine, not only the healing energy, but the caring touch, the reminder that the torture was over, that he was among friends.

Sometimes, Asterix had nightmares. He would wake with a shout, or murmur in his sleep. Obelix always woke at Asterix's first sign of distress, jumped up and rushed to kneel at his bedside, then held his hand and soothed him until he quieted. Occasionally, Beatnix would have to look away as the big man thumbed away his friend's tears. "It's over, shh, Asterix, it's all over," Obelix would keep repeating, "I'm here, you're safe, it's all right, it's all right, Asterix, I'm here." More often than not, as he murmured comfort, he would kiss the crown of Asterix's head like a child, stroking his brow and holding his hand, carefully avoiding the salved and bandaged wrist, just running his thumb back and forth over his friend's fingers until he slipped back into a more peaceful sleep.

The patient slept for long, long hours during the daytime as well as in the night, which was to be expected following such terrible injuries. When Asterix was resting comfortably, and their larder was full, or when the soup was brewing, Obelix would go out, the little dog trotting at his heels, and work on Beatnix's chimney. It was almost all done now – the main thing slowing the works was the drying time needed for the clay. At first, Beatnix had worried because Obelix's powerful grip would routinely smash the rocks into smaller pieces than the chimney needed. But he made up for it in speed, carving out the bigger stones with great efficiency and fitting them precisely into place as though they weighed no more than a pebble. The powdered and smashed rock, mixed with the clay, made the chimney stronger, while the remaining loose shale was useful for spreading on damp areas, and making paths. Occasionally, Obelix would throw the dog a pebble and tell him to 'fetch.' The druid was glad to see him doing something to raise his spirits, for the purification of playing with an animal would fill him and reflect upon the aura he gave to the patient.

Sometimes, Beatnix would return from gathering herbs to find Obelix taking care of his and Asterix's belongings. He had borrowed a needle and thread to mend Asterix's torn tunic. Seeing what he was doing, and knowing that the patient would probably not be able to raise his arms for some time because of his wounds, Beatnix had told the big man to leave the tunic open from top to bottom like a woman's over-tunic, then showed him how to add a number of strings to fasten it closed. He had some black thread given to him by a traveling pedlar, and he gave it to Obelix. The man's sewing skills were impressive, even for a bachelor. It had come out surprisingly well, the straight edges of the rip making it look as though the garment had been designed that way. It did cause the druid to surmise that the Romans had split the tunic with a sword for easier access to the warrior's back, but he kept silent about that.

While Asterix slept, Obelix spent time regularly polishing the dirt and stains from Asterix's helmet, painstakingly cleaning the feathers on its wings, then moving on to caring for his friend's sword and scabbard, until all of these shone as though forged yesterday, bearing no trace of the blood that had stained them. No matter how many times he saw it, the sight of his friend's blood always seemed to make the big man shudder, and the cleaning was oftentimes accompanied by silent weeping. As the blood disappeared with washing and polishing, and Asterix's health improved, Obelix grew more cheerful while he cleaned and cared for the helmet and sword, such fondness on his face that Beatnix had a hard time not to stare. One time Beatnix had forgotten not to stare, and watched for a long time, until Obelix had looked up from his engrossment in the task. Beatnix had smiled, and Obelix's face had reddened. "For when he can use them again," he'd muttered shyly, looking down at the helmet in his hands.

* * *

With time and care, the warrior's grotesque bloating began to subside, and his mangled back began to grow fresh skin. Soon the druid began to set Obelix to helping his friend sit up for short periods, then longer ones. At first it was all Asterix could do to remain upright. His muscles would be trembling with fatigue, unable to support him, when Obelix finally lowered him to the mattress. And that was not even the worst of this stage. The thing that all of them hated the most was the coughing Asterix had to endure to clear the bloody phlegm out of his damaged lungs.

It was a horrifically painful process, and had to be repeated daily. Beatnix had told Obelix sternly that there was no sparing Asterix this, lest he drown in his own lungs. It didn't mean Beatnix didn't hate it: despite the pain-relieving potion, Asterix suffered terribly, and there were days when Beatnix thought that that alone would kill the patient. Sitting up in bed, chest supported by Obelix's inner elbow, cheek resting against Obelix's broad upper arm, Asterix would cough into a bowl Beatnix held over Obelix's shoulder – well, arm, really – to catch the detritus that came up, clots of mucus tinged with dried and fresh blood. Having suffered pneumonia once, Beatnix knew all too well the exquisite tortures of clearing diseased or injured lungs, the serrated knife that sliced across the chest from the inside and made you long for death. Beatnix couldn't even imagine the additional torment that came from jarring his patient's cracked ribs and mangled flesh. The injuries from the whipping not only caused the patient much suffering, they were harmful in other ways, for they prevented the traditional remedy of massage. Massaging the patient's back was supposed to help with at least the sensation of knives in the chest, but it would be a fool who attempted to touch Asterix's raw and healing back.

Thus it was that with every miserable, agonizing session, Asterix merely hung limp and helpless over his friend's massive arm, racked with coughing, weeping with pain, while Obelix bent over him and held fast to his hand as he convulsed and hacked. There were times when Beatnix sensed the flame of his patient's life flickering and fading, unable to stand the torment from within and without and breathe at the same time. But it was these times that awed him the most, for it was then that it became visible to Beatnix that the patient's big friend was pushing his life-force into Asterix, the aura-transfer pulsing and palpable in the enclosed space. He could almost hear Obelix's soul urging _Here, take what you need, I beg of you, take all I have, no, that's not enough, take more, take more_, through their touch; almost feel it through the tears the big man wept when his friend moaned, that slipped down his cheeks and soaked unnoticed into his friend's yellow hair_. _And every time, Asterix would cling to his friend's big arm as though his life depended upon it - which Beatnix knew it did - and shudder while Obelix held his hand and supported his head. There would be a flutter of light, invisible to the two warriors but clear to Beatnix's sight, and Asterix would breathe, his pain visibly abating and his lips less blue; then his life's flame would burn bright again. The permanent effects of the potion, combined with their size difference, made Obelix perfectly suited to his self-imposed task: the big fellow would turn a few shades paler, but seemed otherwise all right. Beatnix noticed that Obelix tended to eat more and be in greater need of a nap after these sessions, and he was glad that instinct guided the naïve fellow to replenish his own stores of energy so he could give more to his friend.

The problem of the necessary torture tore at the druid's heart, though, for he was pledged to do no harm, and he thought long and hard for a solution. Finally, Beatnix hit upon the idea of smearing the patient's chest with eucalyptus salve prior, then filling a gourd with hot water and placing it against his windpipe and lungs. This relieved much of his pain when he coughed, and allowed him to breathe more easily, until his lungs were no longer torn up from the inside. After some time of this, the cruel therapy bore fruit: at long last, the day came when Asterix coughed with pain that was bearable, and his lungs were clear, and well on the way to healing.

* * *

And so it grew better with food and medicine and loving care, until Asterix was able to step out of bed and stand, and then take his first, halting steps across the room with his friend's support. It was useful to Beatnix to have such a strong assistant: he didn't have to worry about rationing the patient's strength to allow him enough resources to make it back to bed on his own power, for Obelix could just pick his friend up and carry him back to bed when he'd had enough.

The next step was to be short walks outside. But he wanted to be sure the patient was ready, for his survival was enough of a miracle already, without pushing their luck. Every day, Beatnix watched, with an eagle eye, his patient shuffle back and forth within the hut, and examined his heart and lungs afterwards. And every day Asterix would ask, shuddering with fatigue as Obelix eased him down, "When can I go outside?"

"Not yet," Beatnix would answer regretfully. So far, his answer had always been "Not yet," for Beatnix could see how taxing it was for the patient to move at all. Although it had only been some double-handfuls of days, it clearly seemed like years to his dynamic patient, visibly chafing at the bonds of his own illness. It grew tiring, but thank the gods, the two Gauls were well aware that druids' orders came first.

But the small warrior was getting more and more depressed at the lack of fresh air, even though he exercised twice a day inside the hut. That was, until one day, Obelix took Beatnix's permission and brought the little dog inside. The sight made Asterix smile, and the druid remembered how many of the elders said that the presence of a pet could restore a patient's will to live. There was no shortage of the will to live in this man Asterix, but the presence of the small dog seemed to cheer him up, and lighten his hours of enforced inactivity. The patient's pain, though he hid it well, prevented him playing with the dog, but the little animal seemed to sense this, and frequently curled up to sleep in his lap, and Obelix would sit at the foot of the bed, a hand or arm instinctively resting on Asterix's knee, and smile.

* * *

The day Beatnix permitted Asterix to go out for the first time had marked the first full moon since he had been carried over Beatnix's doorstep, Succellus at his heels. Beatnix wasn't really one to count the days by the calendar, but it seemed a good moment to mark a step on the road to recovery: lungs almost clear, swelling much improved (although it would be a long, long time before it was back to normal), new, translucent skin growing over the raw flesh, beneath the scabs.

"O Druid, when can I go outside?" Asterix asked as usual, even his voice much stronger than before. It was clear that he was only asking pro forma, and leaned back, expecting the standard 'Not yet.'

Beatnix nodded, coming to a decision. "Tomorrow."

Then he'd outright laughed at the sight of the pair's identical jaw-dropped stares. "Wrap up warmly, mind. If you caught a cold it would set your recovery back another month, and you're the one who said you didn't have time for that."

It was Obelix who answered. "Don't worry, O Druid, I'll make sure he does." Asterix quirked a half-smile at him, one eyebrow raised, and let it slide.

As it turned out, Beatnix was the one to supervise the 'wrapping up': Asterix sat on the bed, grinning, enduring being draped – loosely, so as not to aggravate his wounds – with cotton fabric, and a woolen blanket over that, till he ended up looking a little bit like an Egyptian mummy. He was careful to leave his forearms and hands free, and Beatnix guessed he had a bit of a phobia about being restrained – hardly surprising, after what had been done to him. Obelix knelt and pulled his freshly washed trousers up over his knees, letting Asterix finish pulling them up and tie the drawstring as he, Obelix, put Asterix's shoes on and fastened them. The blood had cleaned off nicely, and they looked quite serviceable. Then Obelix smiled like a noble escort and bowed, taking Asterix by the arm and helping him, carefully, to rise. Beatnix flung the door open, smiling. His smile grew wider to hear the sound of joyful barking outside. "Only to the bottom of the garden and back!" he admonished, reminding himself of his own mother. "You don't want to overdo it on the first day."

"Yes, O Druid," Asterix beamed, unable to hide his delight at being allowed outside, even for a brief moment. The pair took a few paces towards the door.

"Wait!" Obelix carefully detached himself from Asterix's arm, and bolted – Beatnix was getting used to the fat man's unexpected speed – to the corner of the room where his and Asterix's things were kept. He rummaged in the small collection, and pulled out Asterix's helmet.

Asterix's eyes widened. He opened his slack-jawed mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

Obelix ran back to his friend, smiling. "Let me help, don't want to dislodge the blanket." He took a deep breath, as though preparing for some rite. His face grew serious as he gently lowered the helmet in both hands and set it on Asterix's head, half-holding his breath, like one arranging an offering to Belisama. He adjusted it just right, then stepped back, looking nervous. "Is that comfy?"

Asterix was still staring at his friend, speechless. He blinked hard a couple of times and cleared his throat. Then he broke into a blinding smile, and reached out to take Obelix's proffered arm. "Let's go for a walk, Obelix," he said.

And they stepped over the threshold together, both grinning like lunatics, the little dog bouncing excitedly behind them.


	9. Chapter 9

The days passed surprisingly quickly. Asterix recovered more quickly than any other patient Beatnix had had – another thing Beatnix would have to ask Getafix the Druid about, if he ever got the honor of meeting him. If he had wanted to meet the man before, he was doubly keen on it now. The magic potion was exhausted, but it had done its work: the patient was on his feet again. Still in pain, still weak, but mobile for all that, rebuilding his body with good food and his friend's soul-strength so freely offered, rebuilding his soul with safety and comfort and the company of his friend and his new pet. By the time the moon had waned and waxed and waned again, Asterix's health was much improved, and the pair were starting to talk about leaving.

After his latest examination of the small warrior's healing wounds – there was nothing Beatnix could do to keep them from scarring forever, but perhaps the famed Getafix could help when they returned home – and bruises, now fading from black and purple to yellow and green, under his friend's worried gaze, Beatnix agreed, against his better judgment. After all, he couldn't keep the man there for the year it would take him to return to full health and strength."If you can keep taking walks morning and night through the forest for another ten days without incident," he stipulated, "and get from here to the dolmen on the other side of the wood past the stream without you getting out of breath, Asterix— watch him, Obelix—" here, the druid fixed Asterix with a stern look, and Asterix looked sheepish, as he'd been known to push himself to exhaustion, walking till his legs crumpled beneath him— "I'll give you a clean bill of health and allow you to resume your journey, with strict instructions as to proper nutrition and rest. And no horseback riding or traveling on foot for at _least_ another month! You're to use ox-cart for preference, horse-cart only if necessary, don't—"

"All right, O Druid," Asterix laughed, holding up his hands. "We promise to do all you say when the time comes."

Beatnix just looked at Obelix. "If he doesn't, you have my permission to tie him down."

* * *

A week later, Asterix was pretty sure he would be able to resume the journey at the appointed time. He smiled as he stepped over the threshold of the strange druid's hut. It was a cool day, but the sun was out – the kind of day that made one glad to be alive. He breathed in slowly, accustomed by now to the small spears of pain that shot through his ribs as the muscles between them expanded. Far, far better than he'd been before. Toutatis, that coughing… Asterix banished the thought. He looked up at the clear blue sky, felt the sun on his skin, smelled the rich scents of the grass and flowers, and thanked Toutatis for the air he drew into his lungs.

He stepped forward, not as strongly as he'd like, but steadier than he'd been yesterday, and yesterday, he thought gladly, had been steadier than the day before. Obelix shuffled at his side, pacing him. Still slow, but nowhere near his previous old-man's gait. Dear old Obelix, always watching him like a hawk, hand hovering at his side to catch him if he tripped or faltered. It should be irritating, but Asterix was actually warmed by it. Since his illness… he was reluctant to call it by its name, 'capture' or, well, anything… since he had been unwell, he'd noticed a greater reluctance to be out on his own. Nothing specific, just a little tendril of fear that curled about his heart in tandem with the piercing pains in his ribs, throbbed with his fading bruises, and nagged at him with the intermittent burning in the skin of his back and shoulders that made him glad of the druid's soft, oversized tunic.

It wasn't usual for Asterix to feel fear without good cause, and it bothered him a bit. Well, he reasoned with himself, he'd had… a bit of an experience. He supposed it might make him rather jittery for a while.

He took in deep breaths, calming himself, ignoring the pain it caused. His friend's large, sturdy hand hovered loosely at his elbow, offering support if he needed it. It was all right. He was safe. He forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, to move further and further away from the druid's hut. _Act like a Gaul, _he said bracingly to himself. _It's not as though this is the first time you've had a few bumps and bruises._ He shuddered, and immediately Obelix touched his upper arm lightly. "All right, Asterix? Not too cold?"

Asterix smiled encouragingly. "No, I'm all right, thanks."

"Are you sure? I could get you a muffler…"

Asterix waved off the fussing, concentrating on reaching a big oak tree that had become their marker of sorts on his daily exercise. It was laughable to call it 'exercise', really – he felt like Geriatrix – but Asterix had to admit he was doing better than a month ago. He just hated how slowly it was going. The banquet needed to be held, and a month's delay was just what they _didn't_ need. Although he had to admit he still felt a little chill inside whenever he thought of going out on the road again…

"Asterix!" Obelix's thrilled voice cut through his thoughts. "Romans!"

Asterix flinched. The cold chill that welled up from within his chest came as a shock to him, and it took him a moment to realize that Obelix had already gone for the legionaries. By the time he could see and hear again, Obelix was jauntily returning with an armful of Roman helmets and a satisfied smile on his face. "A bit of fun at last!"

He must have seen something in Asterix's face, because he dropped the helmets and was at his side like a shot. "Asterix, are you all right? Are you dizzy? Does anything hurt?"

Asterix reached out and gripped Obelix's hand, tight. It felt very warm, almost as though Obelix was feverish. "No, not at all," Asterix said. He deliberately raised his head high, and smiled at Obelix. "I'm all right. How were the Romans?" He ignored the little spike that gnawed at his stomach at the word. A warrior's job was to face fear and conquer it.

"Soft," his friend grumbled. "You'd think they'd be better trained…" Obelix rambled on about the Romans and how they had used to be more fun when they were trained better, and Asterix listened with about one-half of one ear, as usual when Obelix took it into his head to hold forth on the relative merits of either Romans or boars, breathed as deeply as his still-sore ribs would let him, and shored up his flagging confidence with bracing words in his head, though they rang hollow, the cracks in his bones telling him a different story.

* * *

Obelix, still worried about Asterix 'coming over queer', as he put it, kept a protective arm round him all the way back to the druid's hut, and Asterix was grateful for the support. It was fortunate that Obelix couldn't hide his delight at the little fight he'd had, and his good cheer covered up Asterix's disquiet – Asterix never did feel very chatty during their walks, his energy taken up by breathing and putting one foot in front of the other, so his silence went unremarked – when the shadows lengthened and they returned to Beatnix's for dinner.

"You're in a good mood," the druid smiled at Obelix as he dished them up some food – a boar for Obelix, and bread and soup with meat for Asterix. Beatnix and Obelix sat on stools next to Asterix, who – as per druid's orders – ate reclining on his side in the Roman style, propped up with pillows to keep him upright.

"He thumped a Roman patrol," Asterix smiled gamely. If he said it often enough, he'd be able to get over his illogical fears, of that he was sure.

"A Roman patrol?" the Divodurum druid frowned. "Funny, they don't usually come all the way out here." Beatnix pondered, munching. "Hmm. They might have been on a mission of some sort."

Asterix's stomach roiled and he set his soup carefully down on the bed next to him. Normally, the thought that the Romans were looking for him would have been mildly entertaining, and he'd have been energized by the thought of a good punch-up. Now, he just felt sick.

The druid looked sharply at him. No, not sharply – _shrewdly. _Then he looked back down at his boar. "It's normal to feel a bit off colour after an experience like yours," he said with his mouth full, his tone mercifully matter-of-fact. Asterix didn't think he could stand too much scrutiny right now.

"Of course," Asterix mumbled, or something similar, and lowered his head to the pillow, galled by the pain that plagued him still. He was glad to hear the druid keep Obelix from urging him to eat – there wasn't any way he could, right now.

When they came over to do the nightly salving and bandaging, Asterix pretended to be asleep. He felt humiliated, although he couldn't tell exactly why. He remained silent, though, even when the druid tried to coax him to speak, saying, "Just a few more days and you'll be on your way home," and things of that sort. He just closed his eyes tighter and clenched his fists, not caring if they knew he was pretending. He needed some time to stop acting so childishly.

Just before he fell asleep, Asterix felt the gentle touch of his best friend's hand closing carefully around his elbow. "Don't be sad, Asterix," Obelix whispered softly, almost plaintively.

"It's all right, Obelix," Asterix murmured into his pillow, and felt his shame recede a little.

* * *

The sun dawned bright and warm the next day, casting out Asterix's fear. He put up with the morning ministrations with ill grace, he had to confess, because he was longing to go outside again and conquer his fears. There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all. Of course there were Romans, there had always been Romans, and he had faced them without potion before; indeed, he'd faced them with only the druid Getafix by his side, and emerged victorious. He held his head high as he always had done, pushing unease aside, filling his mind with confident thoughts and taking some comfort in the small dog following them, wagging its tail.

They were almost at the oak tree when Obelix's joyful cry rang out. "Asterix! Romans!"

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Asterix caught him by the arm. "Wait."

His big friend paused, frozen in the familiar ready-to-dash-off-and-get-them classic Obelix-pose that Asterix knew so well. "Why can't I get them?"

"I want to know why they're here."

"Oh, that's easy! I can make them talk—"

"Shh, Obelix!"

"But I can—"

_"Obelix!" _Asterix hissed urgently. He felt the familiar surge of frustration that always accompanied trying to stop his friend doing something he wanted in order to achieve some future goal. Now Obelix would argue, and Asterix would have to argue back, and the legionaries would hear, and—

Asterix looked to the side, surprised. Obelix had obediently subsided, crouching next to him behind a large rock, with high bushes to left and right. "Shh," he said to the little dog, which had started growling, and the animal obediently subsided. Grateful, Asterix reached out and covered Obelix's hand with his own. It seemed there were some fringe benefits to being ill after all, if his stubborn friend was this compliant. Obelix glanced sidelong at him. "You will explain later, won't you, Asterix?" Obelix whispered.

"Of course," Asterix smiled fondly. He was warmed when Obelix smiled back.

They hid completely behind the foliage as the patrol marched into the clearing and clustered together for what looked like an impromptu confabulation. They didn't seem any too eager to be there. "Where the Hades _is _this druid's hut supposed to be, anyway?" one of them was just saying as he came into earshot. The wings on Asterix's helmet shot up, and he looked sidelong at Obelix significantly.

"Join the army, they said," muttered another legionary, the shortest of the little sextet. "See the world, they said… Not a word about being massacred by hordes of savage rebel Gauls!"

"No-one's going to be massacred, Timorus!" barked his Optione, a stocky fellow who looked so much like Vitalstatistix that it made them feel quite homesick for a moment. Of course, unlike the Gaulish chief, the optio was clean-shaven, with short back and sides, as per Roman Army regulations.

"But did you see how Marijuanus' patrol looked when they came back, Optio Vacuumcleanus, sir?"

"Marijuanus?" The optio, Vacuumcleanus, snorted. "Who could believe anything that idiot says? If I didn't know better I'd swear he was a lotus-eater. He's off in a dream-world half the time, always imagining things!"

"But Optione," protested the legionary called Timorus, "they were all beaten up!"

"Beaten up? Ha!" scoffed Vacuumcleanus. "For all I know, Marijuanus and his lot got into a tavern brawl, and made up a gallus-and-tauri* story to get out of being put on fatigues. The only ones getting beaten up are the Gauls. Or have you forgotten that little fellow we caught the other day?"

Obelix tensed. Asterix tightened his hand on his. "Shh," he breathed.

"I should say not," said another legionary, tall with coal-black hair. "Centurion Pontius whipped the pips off _his_ shoulders all right!"

"Yeah, that outlaw got a beating he'll never forget," tittered the Roman behind him, a skinny fellow with a long nose and pimples.

"That's if he lives to remember it," said Black Hair. "Rescue or no rescue, I'm pretty sure he breathed his last under the lash." He smirked. "That was a good job well done. Mercilus was trying to go easy on him, but the Centurion would have none of that! Not a strip of skin left on the wretch's back by the time they were finished with him. He probably died right there at the post, or not long after."

Asterix felt dizzy. His heart was pounding, his insides lead, but he clenched his jaw, determined to be strong. Next to him, he could feel Obelix trembling, clearly itching to go out and thump the Romans. Asterix squeezed Obelix's hand with both of his to hold him back, although he was suddenly very glad to have him on his side. The black-haired legionary was still talking. "Personally, I think it's a waste of time to see if the crazy druid is sheltering him. Unless the druid has the power of the gods of Olympus, he'll be sheltering a corpse."

"I'm with you, there's no way he could have survived that thrashing," said a third legionary, short and squat. "But I must admit he had courage, even if he _was _a Gaul. He held his tongue until the very end. Did you hear him scream? Probably the last sound he ever made."

A shiver of frailty chilled Asterix. He'd cried out? He couldn't recall it. He'd tried so hard not to… But he was distracted by how Obelix's hand jerked out from under his, clenching into a fist upon the rock's surface. His friend's head was bowed to the stone, his face bright red, shuddering so violently that Asterix feared for his health. "Obelix," he breathed. The little dog put his front paws up onto Obelix's foot, but Obelix was closed off, noticing nothing.

"That is what befalls those who defy the might of Rome." The optione made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "He paid in blood for his crimes."

"Still, he was a brave enemy, I'll give him that. I almost felt sorry for him," said the same legionary. "By Juno, I was on fatigues the other day in the courtyard, and the cracks in the flagstones are _still _stained with his blood! It's never going to come out! I tried the brush that—"

But what type of brush the legionary had been using on his fatigues they would never know. Obelix surged up from his hiding place, startling the small dog, pushing over the rock they had been leaning against— "Obelix, no!" –and leaping out at the legionaries with a roar Asterix was sure could be heard for miles. "Don't!"

But it was too late. The optio was sent flying so far Asterix was half-sure he'd land in his own barracks. The rest of the legionaries were punched hard, without any pleasure, knocked into trees or dispatched with an uppercut. As Asterix leaned over the rock, he could see that Obelix wasn't smiling the way he usually was when he thumped Romans – he was… Wait a moment.

As he threw his punches, Obelix was _crying._

It was all over in a matter of seconds. Asterix rose, using the rock for support. "Obelix…?" he tried tentatively.

The patrol had been a small, six-man contingent, the kind used for reconnaissance. Its legionaries lay stunned or unconscious, their weapons scattered all about. Obelix stood among them like an oak shivered by an axe, tears falling from his eyes. Asterix, thanking the gods he could move more easily now, went to him. He touched his arm gently. "Obelix?"

His friend burst into sobs, and – for the first time that Asterix could ever recall – turned and moved _away _from Asterix's touch. He came to rest leaning against a tree, head in his arm, sobbing – not the noisy sobs that were his wont, but deep, soundless gasps of grief that shook his entire body. The tiny dog stood at his feet and whined.

Saddened and alarmed, Asterix crossed the few paces to the tree, and took Obelix's free hand in both of his. Gently patting the big hand, he asked softly, "What is it, Obelix? What's the matter?"

Obelix just wept silently, as though his heart would break. Asterix felt a pang in his own heart. "Come on," he coaxed, still speaking no louder than a whisper. "You can tell me, old friend."

At the word 'friend', Obelix choked as though he had something stuck in his throat, gasping until he was blue in the face. "Obelix!" Asterix pleaded, frightened now. "Tell me what's wrong!"

There must have been something in Asterix's voice, because Obelix turned to face him at last, his face screwed up in pain. Asterix couldn't recall seeing such a grimace on his face ever before. He kept Obelix's hand in both his own, patting it encouragingly, and waited. "It's all right. Whatever it is, we can do something about it. Come on," he said, eyes never leaving Obelix's face.

"It's—it's…" His friend dragged in a shuddering breath. "They were talking about—about…" The hand in Asterix's curled tight into a fist. Fighting not to cry, Obelix drew his fists into his sides. "You were—" He choked in earnest, and the tree he was leaning against shuddered, sending down a shower of leaves. His voice subsided into a mumble. Asterix could just make out the word "bleeding" before Obelix broke down entirely, shaking with silent grief.

_Oh._ Asterix hadn't thought for a moment what it must have been like for Obelix, finding him. "Obelix! It ended well. You saved my life," he blurted.

_Wrong thing to say. _The reminder of what had almost befallen Asterix made Obelix sob harder, still silently. The air seemed to grate in his throat. "Sorry… Asterix… I'll pull myself together… only—"

"It's all right." Asterix patted his hand.

Obelix gulped, "I just—when that legionary said—about _you_…"

Asterix shuddered, a chill going through him at the memory. Apparently, he ought to have shown weakness sooner, because Obelix immediately straightened, dashed away his tears and turned to him, hands hovering around his shoulders but not touching. "Asterix!"

"It's all right." For the first time, Asterix was glad of the druid's insistence he take his recovery slowly: if he had been in worse shape, the shock might have caused him to collapse. But the gradual resistance he had built up had improved his physical condition to the point where he could take it in stride. Still… "Let's go home. We have to tell Beatnix the Druid what happened."

"I don't quite get it, Asterix."

"That's all right. I'll explain it to you when we get home. It's about time for dinner anyway."

Obelix smiled at the thought of dinner, but the shadows weren't gone completely from his childlike expression. He held out an arm, and Asterix took it gratefully, although he was used to walking without support now. As they turned back towards the hut, Asterix noticed Obelix looked pensive. "They… they said Beatnix was sheltering…"

Asterix looked up at Obelix. He'd expected to have to explain to Obelix; he wasn't used to his friend working things out for himself. "Yes?" he smiled encouragingly.

"They said, sheltering us. Or…" He swallowed hard. "Or one of us…"

"Yes, all right, go on."

"The Centurion, they said. What does he have to do with it?"

Asterix almost answered, then held back on an impulse. Then he asked something he'd never asked before. "What do you think, Obelix?"

"He…" Obelix's brow furrowed, "the… the Centurion sent them to find out."

Asterix's glow of pride in his friend felt like getting his health back. "Yes."

"But that means Beatnix might be in danger."

"We'll protect him, Obelix." Despite the confidence in his words, Asterix quickened his pace as much as his strength would allow on the way back to the druid's hut, turning strategy over in his head. "The best thing would be to make ourselves scarce," he said, thinking out loud. "The Romans clearly think Beatnix is a harmless lunatic…"

"He's not a lunatic!"

"Of course not, Obelix. But that reputation protects him, and it'll protect him from being seen as a sympathizer with dissidents if there's no evidence we were there. Divodurum is under the Pax Romana, and they won't harm him if they think he's got nothing to do with us."

Obelix, starting to find the conversation hard to follow, decided to keep quiet. He knew Asterix often needed to think out loud like this, even if he couldn't follow everything his quick-witted friend was saying. He always listened even if he didn't get it, because he knew Asterix would tell him later. And it was quite nice to have Asterix talk to him about his plans, even though they didn't make sense to him half the time and seemed unnecessarily convoluted the other half. Asterix wasn't one to thump his way out of trouble – and then, all of a sudden, he was, and Obelix sometimes privately thought he'd save a great deal of time if he'd resorted to thumping in the first place.

He blinked. Asterix was still talking. It was the first time he'd thought of Asterix the way he'd used to, not about his injuries, not about how to help him, but just him and Obelix on adventures together. Obelix smiled fondly at Asterix, walking and talking. He remembered too well how awful it had been to have to pick him up and watch him suffer, and it just made this moment all the sweeter. He listened to Asterix planning strategy, too full of the glow of happiness to pay what he was saying much attention.

That was, until they pushed the door to the druid's hut open to find Beatnix surrounded by Roman soldiers with spears.

* * *

*Roman cock-and-bull


	10. Chapter 10

"For the last time," the Decurion was saying as the door swung open, "where are the dissident Gauls?" He had a fistful of Beatnix the Druid's tunic.

The druid drew himself up straight, his face becoming visible from the doorway. He had a bruise on his cheek, and the eye on that side was swollen shut. Still, his other eye seemed to look down on the Roman in contempt. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"But we do," Asterix's voice rang out.

Obelix was already moving forward. The Decurion whirled just in time to get a fist in the face. Obelix grabbed him by the sandals, swinging him around his head like a slingshot to knock the stunned legionaries down like ninepins. They ran as if the hounds of hell were after them.

Asterix stepped forward. "O Druid." He had felt another jolt of fear when he'd reached for the sword at his belt – only to find no belt, and no sword. They hadn't deemed it necessary when he and Obelix were just out walking. That was it—from now on he wasn't going anywhere without it. That settled in his mind, he guided the druid to a stool, gently sitting him down. "Are you hurt?"

The druid grinned, showing bloody teeth—thankfully all still there. "It was worth it to spit in his eye. And here I'm supposed to be a pacifist…"

"Here." Obelix appeared next to Beatnix, holding out a cold compress.

Asterix and Beatnix both blinked up at Obelix. The druid reached out and took it, placing it over his swollen eye. "We'll make a druid's assistant out of you yet, menhir-maker," he smiled. "Fetch me the potions for pain and swelling, there's a good lad."

Asterix stared as Obelix rushed to do the druid's bidding, smoothly retrieving the potions from the shelves at the rear of the hut. He found two goblets and measured a dose into each. "Here you are," Obelix said, handing the goblets to the druid. He waited till Beatnix had drained both, then plucked them back in one big hand, grabbed the Decurion by the leg in the other, and carried the whole out to the rainwater drain. For an instant, it occurred to Asterix that him getting injured might not have been the worst thing in the world.

Obelix's voice echoed out with the sound of water splashing. "What do you want me to do with this one?"

"Ah, just dump him in the forest somewhere," called the druid. "The other ones are already spilling the beans to their commanding officer."

Obelix called something back, but Asterix wasn't listening. _Their commanding officer… _He couldn't help a chill at the thought of the centurion's cold, smug face as he'd ordered the whipping. The agony seemed to resound through him afresh, the desperation, the weakness… he shivered.

"All right, Asterix?" Obelix's arm, strong and sure, wrapped around Asterix's elbow.

"Hm? Oh, yes. Yes…" Asterix faced the druid unhappily, taking in the compress covering his face. "I am sorry, O Beatnix. It was us thumping the first patrol that led them to come out here."

"I don't mind. They think I'm bonkers. It protects me, pretty much. You'd best be on your way. They won't be sending out another patrol until tomorrow, and by then—"

"No." Asterix's insides burned with the bitter ache of fear, but he stood tall and faced the druid resolutely. "No, O Druid. We're not such cowards as to run off and leave you to face the music."

Obelix stepped up beside him. "That's right!"

"Be reasonable. If they find me all alone—"

"They'll torture you to find out where we went." Asterix couldn't quite help the hitch in his voice. By the immediate pressure of Obelix's hand on his shoulder, he could tell he hadn't managed to hide it.

"But," the druid was still talking, "if I—"

"If you nothing." Asterix attempted to smile reassuringly. "Obelix here loves a punch-up."

"It's you I'm worried about, Asterix!" said the druid. "You are still nowhere near being able to—"

"It's all right," Asterix reassured him. "I know enough to stay out of it." Galling, but true.

"I trust your discretion." The druid rose, stoking the fire under his cauldron. "The thing is…" He trailed off.

It was Obelix who probed, "What?"

"Well. It's just that their centurion, Pontius Undulivicius, is… rather perseverant."

Asterix frowned, eyes narrowing. "You mean he might come back for you after we're gone."

Beatnix stirred the cauldron, face in shadow. "If he never finds you here, then he can't…"

"He's found us. We've already thumped two patrols," said Asterix, seeing guilt flit across Obelix's face. "The Romans know we're here already." He couldn't blame his friend, but the end result was that… His brain was spinning furiously, looking for a way out. "If they don't find us here, they'll find you instead, and then…" He couldn't help closing his eyes, just for a second, and there was no way of suppressing the shudder that rattled through him. He couldn't seem to think. The thought of the centurion taking the reclusive druid as he had taken him, torturing him to tell the Romans where they had gone – or just punishing him for sheltering them…

Obelix's arm was warm and soft around his shoulders, careful not to touch where it still hurt. The contact calmed Asterix, and he clenched his fists, pulling himself together. He could almost physically feel a pulse of strength shoring up his depleted reserves through his friend's skin. "We're staying." He took in a rather unsteady breath. "Whether we have to fight them off or do something else to get them to leave you alone, we're not leaving you in the lurch. A fine repayment for your hospitality that would be."

"Really, I've been living here for years, and—"

"It's settled." Asterix folded his arms across his chest, noting how slight the pain was from that movement, knowing it would have been impossible a month ago. "We're staying." Behind him, Obelix murmured agreement.

Beatnix half-sighed. In truth, he would have expected nothing less. He could take care of himself, but, he had to admit, it was a relief to have the two warriors there. "In that case," he said, resignedly, "have an early meal and get some rest, because I'm pretty sure they're going to be swarming all over here first thing tomorrow."


	11. Chapter 11

Centurion Pontius Undulivicius felt a surge of pride, marching at the head of his cohort into the woods. He had known for certain that that druid was trouble. All Gaulish druids were. They all needed to be put to death, in his opinion, and if that weakling Julius Caesar hadn't expressly given orders that they and the other denizens of Gaul be protected, in the name of his feeble Pax Romana, Pontius would have had great pleasure in doing so himself. Just line them up one after another and lop off their heads. It would make the Gaulish lands a great deal easier to control.

"Forward, legionaries!" he called. No point in stealth: only weaklings were stealthy.

"Going to get us massacred, the silly nit," muttered Timorus the legionary. "There's this big fat lunatic, and…"

"This is no time for nit-picking, you nitwit," grumbled the short fat legionary of the previous day. "If we say we want a reprieve from the massacring, the Centurion will massacre us. Shut up and keep marching."

"It's not fair," said a third legionary from the patrol. "We don't have weapons of massacring destruction."

"Silence in the ranks!"

The legionaries subsided, _en masse._

* * *

"Ready, Obelix?"

Obelix nodded unhappily. "I don't like your part in it, Asterix."

"I'll be all right." Asterix lifted his chin. "Obelix. The legionaries are all yours. But the Centurion is mine."

They stood at the back of the hut, where the sound of feet marching towards them was growing ever closer. Asterix had never feared the Romans before. Now, he felt himself trembling, cold as ice. "Asterix," Obelix's voice said worriedly, "I could just thump them and—"

"They'll just come back for the druid. We can't let them."

"No," Obelix sighed unhappily. Asterix knew that his friend knew it was true. "But you don't have to face him at all. You're not well."

"I have to, Obelix. I'll get no peace otherwise."

"I think it's silly!"

Asterix smiled. "You're worried about me, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm worried about you! Why wouldn't I be? Give me one good reason!"

"One good reason?" Asterix's eyes softened. "I've got you to help in case things go wrong."

Obelix brightened. "I can?"

"Only if you think it's going badly. And you can't spoil things."

"I won't. I promise." Obelix nodded so fast his head was a blur. "Thanks, Asterix."

Asterix reached up with ease, thanks to a pain potion, and Obelix bent to him. They hugged, Asterix gripping tight, Obelix gentle as a whisper. When they broke apart, Asterix smiled at him again. "Go and take your position. They're almost here."

Obelix darted off, little dog at his heels. Asterix steeled himself for his part in the little drama.

* * *

Centurion Pontius smiled confidently as he strode into the clearing outside Beatnix the druid's hut. Now was the time to deal the enemies of Rome the punishment they so richly deserved. Outlaws needed to be controlled, and fast. Rebellion was like a brush fire: let it catch, let the smallest spark go unquenched, and it would burst into a conflagration impossible to quell. Strike hard and strike fast. "Onwards, men!" he called, and marched towards the home of the Gaulish traitor.

The door swung open and the druid stepped out. Druid, indeed. In those colours, he looked more like a jester. He'd provide entertainment in the arena, if Pontius didn't gut him where he stood. "O Romans."

"You two." Pontius pointed at two legionaries in the front line. "Seize him."

The pair moved around the druid, much more hesitantly than Pontius would have liked, but they finally remembered how to do their duty, each taking hold of one of the druid's arms. "Do you not fear to lay hands upon a druid?" the Gaul had the audacity to smirk.

"W—we have our orders," one of the legionaries quavered. Timorus, if memory served. A more lily-livered idiot never lived.

Of course, the Gaul, sensing weakness, pressed his advantage. Never show weakness, was Pontius' first lesson. "Do you not know that we have direct communion with the gods? We hold the forest in our thrall. It does our bidding—"

"Silence!" Pontius barked. He could see his legionaries turning white. Fools!

"—and we have armies of the dead at our command," said the druid. "To lay violent hands on a druid is destruction and death."

The legionaries' teeth started to chatter. "Silence," Pontius barked. He took in the man's black eye. "By the way you look, Optio Vacuumcleanus' patrol seem to have given you a bit of what you deserve, and they're still alive and well."

"Alive," there was a smug smirk on the druid's face, "but not well."

Pontius took a breath. The man was trying to provoke him into giving him a quick death. Well, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Don't make it worse for yourself, Gaul. Tell me where they have gone, and I might yet be merciful."

"'They?'" the druid laughed bitterly. "Who's 'they?' You know as well as I do that the small Gaul didn't survive."

One of the legionaries breathed in sharply. The druid continued, voice like gall. "His blood watered that great oak, and he was buried beneath it that same night."

Pontius felt a surge of satisfaction. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

The druid's eyes were still serious, and sad. "If you say a prayer for his soul, the gods I serve might show you some mercy."

"A prayer? I will say this: One down, one to go."

"True," said the druid. He had regained his defiant attitude. "But that one will be his murderer."

At that, Pontius couldn't help laughing aloud. "Oh, will it?! I don't see anyone here about to exact vengeance. And if you're talking about his rebel friend, he'll soon be captured too, and…"

"Centurion!" The Gaul's voice was suddenly ringing and powerful. "I have warned you, and you have not heeded the warning. You have scorned the power of a druid, and now the forest itself will turn against you."

There was something in the druid's tone that gave Pontius pause, but, never show weakness. "Curse as you will," he sneered, pushing down the whispers in his mind of tales he had heard, of the Gauls' strange and powerful gods.

"Do you then deny you are a murderer?" The brown eyes of the Gaul bored into his own.

"Who are you to judge me, you Gaulish barbarian! I shall crush you, as I crush all outlaws, rebels and enemies of Rome!"

"On your own head be it." The druid drew breath and raised his voice, calling into the treetops. "O Trees of the Forest! If you see standing here beneath you the man who has caused your roots to be watered with innocent blood, come forth! Come and avenge the blameless man so unjustly murdered!"

Pontius smirked, silencing the little curl of fear in his heart. Whoever heard of trees mov—

Behind him, there were shouts and yells. A bloodcurdling howl echoed from the forest, and a mighty oak crashed down, narrowly missing the legionaries, who jumped out of its way just in time.

_By all the gods!_

Pontius' heart slammed in his chest as the tree rose again into the air of its own accord, as though about to right itself. It was so tall that he could not see its base, hidden among the trees; but its body, hundreds of feet tall, protruded from the forest glade where it had been rooted, and hung there at an angle, swaying back and forth, foliage rustling. The legionaries screamed in terror, scattering. All Pontius could think was, _The Gauls have strange and powerful gods. Retreat is dignity. Who can resist the will of the gods? _

Unwieldy and monstrous, the tree hung in midair, waving slightly from side to side, as though awaiting instructions. From the druid? The druid that he, Pontius, had ordered captured and restrained? _Flee, flee, _said his good sense. It was only sheer stubbornness that kept him standing. _A Roman citizen can withstand the tyrannies of barbaric deities._

The druid's voice cut through his men's cries. "Come! Come, woodland tree! Avenge the murder! Do my bidding!"

The floating tree started sweeping back and forth, clearing legionaries like ninepins. Despite himself, Pontius let out a shout. What had gone before could be explained away as some sort of trickery: but a tree of the forest moving maliciously as though it had human volition, like a twig being swung by a wanton boy through the air, struck terror into his heart. For the first time, it crept into his heart that this accursed forest, and those who dwelt in it, were best left well alone, and the powerful druids who lived there could _have_ it.

By now, the druid was free. The two legionaries holding him had fled in terror at the sight of the tree that obeyed his commands, not to mention the bloodcurdling howls that accompanied it. They had been joined by the entire garrison: all the legionaries had taken to their heels, except for those knocked over and stunned, lying in a heap on the grass. Centurion Pontius had never felt more like running, but he stood his ground. _Never show weakness. _"I was committing no murder," he said, voice quavering, mindful of the mighty oak floating disembodied behind him. "It was justice, punishment for the outlaw's crimes."

"Justice? To torture a man to death?"

"I—" His throat was dry. He swallowed hard before continuing. "I…"

"Without presenting him to Caesar? Going over the head of one whom even you Romans revere as you do your gods?"

"The… It…"

"Remember," the druid said sternly, "you are in the presence of the forest gods. You will be judged by them should you lie." His eyes flickered to the trees. "They, not I, will exact punishment."

The great oak still hovered behind him, and more than ever Pontius felt he was in the presence of a power greater than himself. "I… I…"

"Hear me!" called the druid. "I could have this tree crush you, but I will be merciful! I will allow you to face the spirit of your victim." His voice rose again. "O warrior unjustly murdered! Rise from the grave to face your murderer, if he stand before you now!"

Pontius' eyes widened. Nobody had the power to command the dead! Nobody!

Behind the hut, Asterix heard his cue. Sword drawn, he took a deep breath.

* * *

Hearing the centurion's voice had shaken Asterix more deeply than he could have imagined. Every one of the man's words had cut him to the heart; the sound of him talking sliced away his courage at the roots, leaving him tossed about and terrified. He couldn't shake off the phantom sensation of the manacles at his wrists, the conviction that he was going to die. He was painted with flour, white as snow from head to toe, but he knew that even without it, he was as white as the ghost he was supposed to represent.

A Gaul faced his fears. Exhaling hard, he put on a mask of confidence and stepped out, coming face to face with the Centurion. At the sight of him, the man gave a great cry.

"O Minerva and Apollo, protect me!"

The sight of the man himself shot a bolt of terror through Asterix. Like cold floodwater rising, weakness was seeping into his very soul. His heart beat wildly in his chest; there was no magic potion surging like lightning through his blood, nothing but the strange druid's herbal remedies. Phantom aches burned through his wrists, phantom pains shot through his chest.

The moment stretched, lengthened.

Asterix set his jaw. He was a Gaulish warrior. Despite the debility that spiderwebbed through his suddenly enfeebled veins, he would fight his fear. Fight it to his last breath. In his stance and courage lived the Gaulish resistance. On his courage rested the fate of the strange druid who had saved their lives. Weakness was selfish, and he would not cede the privilege of protecting those who meant the most to him—not only his friends, but his fellow-Gauls, and his occupied native soil. He took a step forward. Now, but thirty paces separated him from the man.

"O Spirit!" the Centurion quavered.

Asterix looked into the face of the man he feared the most, the man who had had him chained up and flogged, the man who had laughed as he screamed in agony. Now the cloud of fear had dissipated and the grey haze was gone from Asterix's vision, he could see the cruel features slack with terror, the centurion's face pasty white. The man was seeing him as a ghost, the tree trick having terrified his legions. All that remained was to finish it, to end the Romans' incursions into the forest for good.

Asterix smiled fiercely. "O Centurion," he said, feeling warmth surge through him as he spoke clearly and firmly. He inclined his head in mock-respect.

"Forgive me, O Spirit. I—I was only dispensing justice," the Centurion stammered. His knees were visibly shaking. The sight of his former torturer quailing before him in abject terror was healing the wounds in Asterix's soul, wounds he hadn't even known were still open and bleeding. He only felt them now, now that they had started to close.

Asterix took a step towards the Roman, sword extended. The man went a few shades paler. Liking the effect, he paused, then took another step forward, and another, slow and inexorable as Fate."O Druid," he said, "I await your command." His tone fairly oozed abject respect. "What would you have me do with this man?"

"Is that not your province, O Spirit?" said Beatnix.

"No, no," Asterix demurred. "You are the ruler of this forest, and we spirits answer to you. Speak, and I shall obey." He took another step towards his 'victim'. On a whim, he added, "Would you have me bear him upon the instant to the spirit world, to roam the earth for evermore? Is that what you would have me do? Or shall I drag him straight down to Hades, there to rot for all eternity?"

Another howl rose up from the forest. Asterix saw the quaking Centurion swallow convulsively. Warmth and security filled him at the thought of Obelix and his little dog, out there in the forest, protecting them all. He looked at the druid, as though it was only Beatnix who stood between him and the Roman's instant death.

"Hmm," said the druid. "Certainly by rights I should let you avenge your death as you wish. But…" Beatnix canted his head and stroked his chin. "Roman, do you wish the opportunity to right the wrongs you have committed? To one day have a chance to see the Elysian Fields, when you shuffle off this mortal coil?"

The centurion shuffled his feet. "Yes. Yes, O Druid, I do! Be merciful, I pray you!"

Asterix took another step towards the Centurion. "You have but to command, O Druid. Would you have me run him through with my sword, or do you prefer to crush him yourself with the trees that do your bidding?"

In the forest behind them, the tree moved, its branches rustling. Asterix hoped Obelix could restrain himself. There was nothing his friend would like to do more than squash the Centurion like a fly beneath the tree. He'd suggested it several times last night, and it was only at Asterix's insistence that he was holding back now. "No!" cried Pontius Undulivicius.

The druid appeared to think for a long time. Then he said, "O Roman. If I grant you your life, know that it is only on loan, a gift from the gods of Gaul. Henceforth, you shall respect and revere them along with the gods of the Romans. Do you concur?"

The tree rustled behind the Centurion. Sweating, the man nodded. Inexorably, the druid continued.

"You shall cease to torture your prisoners. You shall set mercy above justice. You shall release those in the dungeons, and henceforth show compassion to the Gaulish people. You shall not set your own rule above that of your Emperor, who treats the Gauls with more clemency than you have done so far. And finally, you shall never set foot in this forest again. These are the conditions on which I grant you your life. If you refuse, then stand still, and the spirit will run you through with his sword."

"No!" cried Pontius. He had not expected to escape from here with his life, not after the spirit of his victim had risen from the grave. Set foot in this forest? Not for all the sestertii in Caesar's coffers!

"Finally," the druid intoned, "kneel before the spirit and ask its forgiveness."

Asterix just managed to hold on to his Impervious Ghost façade. This had not been in the plan! He managed to keep his head held high as the Centurion threw himself at his feet. "Forgive me, O Spirit!"

Pontius had knelt before to no man; and he knelt to no man now, for a spirit was no man. He willingly knelt to beg the forgiveness of the soul he had murdered.

"The druid has shown you more mercy than I would have," Asterix said, managing to keep his voice steady and suitably menacing. Here was the man who had almost broken him, nearly killed him, kneeling at his feet. The image supplanted that of the whipping-block, restored his shattered soul. Asterix had not known he needed this, but the druid had. He breathed deeply, savoring the reversal of his ignominy, the restoration of his pride. "Since we spirits serve the druids, I have no choice but to obey. But never forget that you owe your life to him."

"I won't... By all the gods..." At his feet, the Centurion muttered broken syllables.

Feeling that his world had finally righted itself, Asterix extended his sword, flat side up. "I forgive you, if you treat all henceforth with kindness. Never do to another what you have done unto me."

"I will not! By all the gods, I will not!"

"Then go. Go, and remember the kindness shown here to you today."

The Centurion scrambled to his feet. He turned, and stopped short at the sight of a cluster of legionaries who had been visible to Asterix before. Recovered from their unconsciousness, they were standing transfixed, watching their centurion kneel to the ghost of the man they had seen whipped to death a few weeks earlier. The man flinched in embarrassment, then gathered the shreds of his tattered dignity. "Return to barracks," he said, voice oddly reedy, then walked, almost at a run, to join his legionaries, who were already scurrying away through the trees.

When the last Roman had fled the scene, Asterix finally let himself fall to his knees, trembling with exhaustion.

* * *

Obelix had never been gladder to see the back of the Romans. Dropping the tree, which made the little dog howl in apparent misery – he might call him Dogmatix, he'd have to see what Asterix thought of it – he ran to his friend's side, dropping to his knees before him. "Asterix! Are you all right?"

Beatnix the Druid was already kneeling beside Asterix. "He's fine, just exhausted. Help me get him to bed? He needs to lie down."

Obelix carefully lifted Asterix into his arms, laying him upon his chest as usual to spare his healing back. Asterix raised his head to meet Obelix's eyes, and grinned at him. Obelix thrilled with joy to see his friend's hazel eyes glowing with their familiar spark, too long absent. "Are you all right?" he asked again, unable to let it go until he'd heard it from his friend.

Asterix's voice was tired, but happy. "I feel like a _shadow_ of myself," he quipped.

Obelix grinned. He couldn't seem to relax, though. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? Nothing hurts?"

Asterix held onto Obelix's shoulder. "Stop."

"What?" Obelix stopped instantly, letting Asterix meet his eyes. "What is it, Asterix?"

Asterix's warm hazel eyes bored into his. _I know it's been awful. Let it go. It's over. _Aloud he said, smiling, "I think I feel a _phantom_ pain."

Obelix stood stock-still. Jokes about Asterix being in pain, however untrue, were not going to be funny to him for quite some time.

Asterix squeezed his shoulder. "You're looking grave. I thought we'd buried the hatchet." _Come on. Come on, old friend. _"You're looking ghostly pale. You might need spectral analysis?"

Obelix took a deep breath. "Well," he shot back, "you're certainly getting into the spirit of the occasion."

Asterix laid his head back against Obelix's shoulder. Obelix could feel Asterix's smile broadening by the movement of his facial muscles against his, Obelix's, skin. "I _do_ feel in high spirits. Almost as if I could float away."

"Hope you're not spooked or anything."

"Oh no," Asterix said airily as they crossed the threshold, the druid holding the door open. "We may not have expected the Romans to materialize, but they ended up putting in a good apparition."

"Yes, but they didn't have the ghost of a chance!" Obelix felt an odd sensation bubble up in his belly. At first, he thought it was hunger. It was only when it burst out of him that he realized it was a laugh. Toutatis, how long had it been since he'd last laughed?

"True," said Asterix as Obelix knelt carefully to let him slip out of his hold and sit on the edge of the bed, "not much chance they'll be coming around our old haunts!"

And Asterix _giggled._

Obelix let slip a string of giggles as well. It was hard at first; he hadn't laughed in so long. But then Asterix said, "It was quite a wraith against time, wasn't it?" and Obelix couldn't help an honest-to-Toutatis guffaw.

"Er… Am I missing something?"

The two friends looked up at Beatnix the Druid, who was staring at them, completely befuddled. His wide eyes and confused expression undid them. Asterix suddenly burst into another fit of the giggles, wincing as he did but unable to stop. Obelix put a gentle arm round him to steady him as he told the druid, "No, no, pardon our high spirits! We're just ghoulish like that!"

And they fell against each other in gales of helpless laughter, Asterix slapping his knee and Obelix flapping his hand, Obelix still careful to keep his other arm there for Asterix to lean on.

* * *

Notes: This chapter is quite shamelessly cribbed, with permission and love and respect, from CrazyBeaver's "Caesar's New Weapon", which I adore. Most probably the rest of it is cribbed from the other Asterix authors here on FFN, as well. I want to thank all of those from whom I have stolen. I love your work.


	12. Chapter 12

They didn't leave for another week. The druid insisted that his patient recuperate now the immediate threat was past.

After the friends had finished their bout of uproarious laughter, Asterix's eyes had slid shut: he was smiling, but clearly at the end of his endurance. Obelix had lowered him to the pillows and carefully tucked the covers around his shoulders. Still smiling, he'd sat on the floor by his bed, one hand – out of long habit – curled around Asterix's hand. "It's all right now, Asterix," he'd murmured. "Everything's going to be all right now."

During that week, Asterix had felt, in truth, as though he were getting his life back. His dreams were no longer haunted with pain and humiliation. He no longer saw the smirk of the torturer and the wood of the whipping-block whenever he closed his eyes. In fact, he was sleeping so well that he tried to insist that the druid let him sleep on the floor, and take back his bed. Perhaps predictably, the druid wouldn't hear of it. His exact words had been, "And ruin all my hard work? Perhaps you'll suggest I gather mistletoe with a sickle made of brass next!" He'd huffed off, muttering, "A patient thinking he knows better than the attending druid. Now I've seen everything."

Asterix had fallen all over himself apologizing, never seeing the druid's secret smile.

* * *

As Asterix's nightmares subsided, he noticed that Obelix was stirring and muttering in the night. The druid, who slept like the dead, seemed not to have noticed; but Asterix, attuned to his friend's sleep patterns, did. He wasn't sure whether to broach the subject with Obelix or not… Until one night, Asterix heard Obelix wake suddenly with a shout. "No! ASTERIX!"

"Obelix! What's wrong?" Asterix tried to get up, moved too quickly, and gasped as a bolt of pain shot through his back. He hadn't felt that way for a while now.

"Asterix, don't move too suddenly—" Obelix was on his knees by the bed, supporting him with a large hand around his upper arm, before Asterix had even fully registered the pain. "You know what the druid said! You'll be stronger soon, but don't over—"

"What was your dream about?"

Through Obelix's touch on his arm, Asterix felt Obelix flinch. "Uhh…"

Asterix couldn't help smiling at that. Obelix was too innocent to say 'Nothing,' or invent some elaborate lie. "Please tell me," Asterix coaxed. "I heard you call for me."

"I—" Obelix gave a loud sob, then turned and buried his head in Asterix's pillow, shoulders shaking. "I dreamed you died!"

Shaken by the simple statement, Asterix looked down at his friend's shaking shoulders. Obelix's broad back was unblemished, but that didn't mean he hadn't also been hurt. Carefully, he turned and laid his arm across his friend, ending up half-lying across him because he was determined to put arm all the way round Obelix's shoulders. "Dear old Obelix," he said softly, pressing his cheek against his friend's spine. "I got hurt, but that doesn't mean you weren't hurt, too."

"I wish I had been, instead of you," Obelix sobbed into the pillow.

"Obelix. Look at me." Asterix drew back, giving Obelix room to straighten up. He looked hard into his friend's eyes. There were no dark circles beneath them, thanks to the magic potion that helped him regenerate faster than any normal man; his face, in the firelight, was as pink as ever. But his little dark eyes were red from crying, and Asterix was reminded again how not all wounds were physical. "Obelix," he tried to smile. "I know I'm the one who got hurt. But you were hurt, too."

Obelix tapped his head, making Asterix smile. "There's not a scratch on me."

"But you're having nightmares." Asterix held up a hand to forestall Obelix's reply. He searched for something to say, then simply opened his arms.

Very, very carefully, Obelix put his arms round Asterix. Asterix was used to getting lost in Obelix's capacious embrace, so the tentative way Obelix enfolded him, as though he were afraid Asterix would break, felt strange. Missing their usual bear-hugs, Asterix opened his mouth to object; but he shut it again as Obelix's arms softly and tenderly closed round his tortured back. The touch was so gentle, so gradual, that even though his friend's arms settled over scabbed and partly-healed skin, Asterix felt none of the pain he'd anticipated, the pain he was already half-consciously gritting his teeth against. Instead there was only warmth, and comfort, and loving strength freely given.

Asterix swallowed hard and put his own arms around Obelix, or at least as much of him as he could reach. As he laid his head on his friend's shoulder, he murmured, feeling himself start to cry, "Thank you, Obelix."

"Thank _you," _came the response, rather tearful as well.

Asterix blinked, startled out of his tears. "For what?"

"For… for not dying," Obelix blurted in his simple way, arms tightening around Asterix, still infinitely gentle, his arms soft and yielding and comforting, his touch bringing no pain, only solace.

Asterix grinned, overcome. He resolved to be alert to Obelix in the future, and console him when he had nightmares, as he remembered – he _did _remember – Obelix had done for him. "Believe me when I say," he smiled, "the pleasure was all mine."

* * *

When the week was over, Beatnix came into the clearing after being gone all morning, leading a pair of oxen pulling a comfortable-looking cart. The two friends stared. Asterix spoke first. "Where did you get this?"

"In town," Beatnix grinned. "I'm not a total recluse, you know."

"Could have fooled me," Obelix put in.

"We've got to pay you," said Asterix, thinking how he ought to get his head together and see where he'd put their money. He'd let Obelix take care of things long enough.

The druid just chuckled. "They practically gave them to me as a gift. After what happened in the forest, the townsfolk now look upon me as a demi-god."

Asterix frowned. "They know?"

"How do they know?" asked Obelix.

"I'm surprised you expected it to remain a secret. A garrison town has garrison taverns, and legionaries go to those taverns. Nobody loves a good gossip more than legionaries, and many of them have friends among the innkeepers. And tales become embellished in the telling. By the time the story reached my ears, I had become commander of a vast army of trees that uproot themselves and perambulate about the forest at will, and hordes of undead bursting forth from beneath the ground and flying about the sky."

Instead of laughing, Asterix frowned. "Won't that harm you?"

"Oh, no. Better feared and revered than feared and spat upon." At Asterix's disturbed look, Beatnix patted his hand. "Asterix, I am not about to uproot myself and go and live closed in, within stone walls and fortifications. I have always kept myself apart from society; and now they think me a demi-god, a privilege I could never have hoped for. Rest assured, my life will be much easier thanks to you."

"If you're sure."

"Very." The druid turned to Obelix. "Now, here are his care instructions: this salve twice daily, morning and evening, until the pot is finished or you get back to your druid, whichever comes later—"

"I wish you could meet our druid," Asterix cut in.

"Getafix?" Beatnix's eyes shone with a wistful light. "I don't think I'm worthy of such an honor. But I would love to, of course."

"Not worthy?" Obelix tapped his head. "Have you gone crazy, O Druid?"

Asterix smiled at his friend's curious mixture of reverence and disrespect. "I think once our druid Getafix learns what you've done for us, he'll insist on coming out here to thank you in person."

The druid blushed deeply. "I…"

Both of them were cut off by an enormous sob from Obelix. "I can't thank you enough," he choked out. "Never enough. You saved our lives."

Beatnix noticed the slip, but tactfully didn't mention it. He'd seen enough to know that the 'our' was hardly an exaggeration: if Asterix's soul had ended up taking the _Bag an Noz, _the ghost ship that sailed to Britannia and beyond, Beatnix knew his friend's life-force would have found no home in this world. It would have reached out in tendrils after Asterix, moving further and further afield until one day it found its home with the one it sought in the Land of the Dead.

Asterix, too, had noticed it, and was sniffling a little. He reached out to Obelix, who gently scooped him up, still crying. Desperately, he clung to Obelix's neck. "Thank you—"

"Don't, don't thank me, if anything had happened to you—"

Their words degenerated into incoherent syllables as they held onto each other for dear life, weeping on one another's shoulders. All their pain, all their fear, all their uncertainty, all their misery, poured out of them in a torrent of cleansing tears.

Finally, Obelix put Asterix down gently, both of them still hiccupping a bit. "You really should meet our druid, O Druid," Asterix repeated, a bit hoarsely. "I'll send you a letter with Postaldistrix – that's our postman – when we get home, telling you when we'll be visiting. Probably in the wintertime, that's when the Romans lie low and it's safe for the three of us to leave the village for a bit."

"Getafix saved your life as much as our nursing did," Beatnix felt obliged to point out. "Without your potion, you wouldn't have made it through the first night."

Asterix frowned. Potion? "But they poured it away…" He shuddered.

Obelix's hand wrapped around his elbow. "Not all of it. I saved what was left. And the bag."

Asterix's voice rose in alarm. "The bag!"

"It's all right, it's all right. It's safe…" Obelix held out both hands.

"He's right, it is," said the druid. "Perfectly preserved in my larder, which is next to an ice-cold subterranean stream. You can continue on your journey as if nothing had happened." He looked to Obelix. "Well, except for one thing. As I was saying, this salve morning and night for as long as it lasts. Then this potion for pain if…"

Asterix looked on in bemusement. When had Obelix become his caretaker? Did this mean he was no longer useful? What had _happened _to him?

"Asterix," said the druid, "you're not feeling inadequate, are you?"

Asterix looked up. "Um…"

"I believe you are."

Asterix felt his face redden. "Well, no, it's just that if it hadn't been for Obelix, this whole mission would have been a shambles. I nearly ruined everything."

"Asterix!" Obelix cried, almost in pain. "If _I _hadn't left you alone while I went to hunt boar, none of this would have happened! It's my fault."

"If I'd been on the alert and not gone to sleep in a stranger's house, none of this would have happened. I know better than that. It's my fault."

"No, it's my fault!"

Asterix's voice rose. "Oh, so you think you have the monopoly on fault?"

"Well," Obelix matched Asterix's tone, "I don't know what monopoly is, but if it means it's my fault then yes!"

"HEY!" bellowed Beatnix. "NO FIGHTING!"

His voice bowled them over, a contrast to their own Getafix, who usually guilted them into stopping with subtle reproofs. They looked sheepishly up at him. "Sorry, O Druid."

"That's all right. Now, listen. It's perfectly normal for you to feel a bit frustrated and belligerent."

"Feel like thumping someone," Asterix explained in an aside to Obelix.

"Asterix, I know you wish you could just throw off your illness like a cloak. But the unfortunate fact remains that you _will _be weak for a while, and you _will _need to depend on Obelix more than usual. And I can tell you for a fact that he would be happy to do so. He gave you his life-energy to keep you alive, you know."

"What?" said Asterix and Obelix in unison.

"Did you never feel stronger, Asterix, when Obelix was touching you? Especially during the coughing fits?"

Asterix felt a shiver run through him. "Yes." His voice dropped. "I… At first, I kept seeing a light. When it was really bad. It would get brighter and brighter, and I'd feel I was leaving my body. It didn't hurt anymore…" He swallowed.

Obelix wore a grimace as though he himself was in pain. He inched closer to Asterix, wrapping a hand around his good shoulder like a lifeline. "Go on," said Beatnix.

"Then…" Asterix knit his brows in concentration. "Then I'd feel something warm. It felt like," he snapped his fingers as he recognized the sensation, "it was just like drinking the magic potion. Like suddenly being strong. And… and not alone." He nodded, unaware that he was doing it. "Then I'd come back. It still hurt, but somehow it was better." He looked up at Obelix with dawning horror. When he spoke, it was to the druid. "You mean… when that happened, I was leeching off his life?"

"Such language! He gave it freely, begged your soul to take it."

"I stole his life-force…" Asterix muttered, still trying to absorb it.

Beatnix actually found himself beginning to take offense. "Shame on you! A loving gift is a gift! You cannot steal what is freely offered!"

Asterix looked frantic. "Did it hurt him? Will it.." he swallowed hard, "…shorten his life?"

"No, no, no, no, no!"

"NOW LISTEN," Obelix pointed a finger at Asterix, "I'VE JUST ABOUT HAD ENOUGH OF BEING TALKED ABOUT AS IF I'M NOT HERE! NOW IF I DID DO WHATEVER HE SAID I DID, I DID IT BY CHOICE AND I'D DO ANYTHING A HUNDRED TIMES OVER IF IT MEANT I'D MAKE YOU THE LEAST LITTLE BIT MORE COMFORTABLE, NEVER MIND SAVING YOUR LIFE!"

"OH, EXCUSE ME FOR BEING WORRIED ABOUT YOURS!"

"EXCUSE YOU?" Obelix's voice softened. "Asterix, I'd give anything, do anything, to—to make sure you're all right. Living half my life with you is much nicer than living all of it without you."

"It won't shorten his life!" Beatnix cut across the arguing. "He's already recovered the strength he gave you with some sleep and a good meal."

Asterix shook his head, sitting down on a nearby stone. "By Toutatis," he muttered. "Wrong, this whole thing is wrong!"

"But I just told you—"

"No, I mean all of it is wrong! Feeling helpless! Being taken care of like an invalid!"

"You _are_ an invalid, in case it had escaped your notice," retorted the druid. "And just how did you think you were going to salve your own back?"

"Obelix shouldn't have to take care of me!"

"Wait a moment, Asterix. If Obelix were as badly injured as you were – still are – would you begrudge him the time and care needed to treat his injuries?"

Asterix shuddered, unconsciously looking at Obelix to reassure himself he was all right. "Of course not, but…"

"Would there come a time when you felt, 'That's enough, he's taken up enough of my time', and left him to his own devices?"

Asterix blinked. "No, never."

"Then why do you deny him the same privilege?"

"Because _I'm _the one supposed to be taking care of things! Not Obelix! It's my _job!"_

"NOW JUST WAIT A MINUTE!" bellowed Obelix. "ARE WE FRIENDS OR ARE WE NOT?"

Asterix rose to his feet. "OF COURSE WE ARE!"

"AM I A MAKEWEIGHT OR AM I JUST AS IMPORTANT AS YOU?"

"A MAKEWEIGHT? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND? OF COURSE YOU'RE IMPORTANT!"

"THEN WHY WON'T YOU LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU THE WAY YOU'D TAKE CARE OF ME?"

Asterix paused for a long moment. Then he smiled wryly. _"Mea culpa, _Obelix. _Mea maxima culpa. _You're quite right. I'm so used to being at the helm, I forget I've got you at the helm with me."

"Well," Obelix broke into a loving smile, "that's just silly."

The friends smiled at each other. "Not everything is on your shoulders, Asterix," said Beatnix, who had watched the exchange with bemusement. "You have friends who will help."

"And you're one of them." Asterix looked him straight in the eye. "We owe you more than we can ever repay."

The druid blushed and shuffled his feet. "Let me go and get your things."

* * *

A few hours later, they were all loaded up in the cart. The druid and Obelix had stuffed a mattress with straw and placed it in the rear, which had a tent over it like a covered wagon. "In you get," commanded the druid.

Asterix looked up at the rear and balked. The mattress looked comfortable, even inviting, but was this really what he was supposed to be doing? "I could take the reins for a while…" he said, feeling a lot like Cacofonix asking to be allowed to sing.

"You do know what 'druid's orders' means, don't you?"

"You said travel by cart," Asterix shuffled his feet and grinned sheepishly as Obelix and Beatnix fixed him with withering glares, "you didn't say anything about taking the reins…"

"Asterix," the druid sighed. "You've said you owe me. Will you do something for me?"

Asterix nodded.

"Good. Then… When you get the opportunity to rest, or take medicine, or receive treatments, will you imagine that it is Obelix in your place?"

Asterix shuddered, unconsciously wrapping his arms about his elbows. "I'd rather not."

"For example," the druid continued as though Asterix had agreed, "right now. Let us imagine that Obelix has been terribly injured. Let's say, burned badly."

Asterix shuddered. "We don't have to get too—"

"…Still in terrible pain. Half his body covered with scars," the druid sailed on, "his back and shoulders raw and still heali—"

The image of Obelix in agony, his freckled skin burned off and bleeding, made Asterix sick. "Get to the point!" he growled.

Beatnix smiled. "Would you tell him to take the reins, or lie in the back of the cart?"

"You must be joking! Take the reins in his condition? I'd make him lie down and get his rest whether he liked it or not!" Asterix suddenly clamped a hand over his mouth. He looked from Beatnix to Obelix, face turning red.

"That's what I want you to do," said Beatnix smoothly.

Snookered, Asterix climbed up into the rear of the wagon. The druid gave him a potion, which he drank. There must have been something in it to make him sleep, because he was snoring before they were properly away from Divodurum, the little dog curled up happily at his feet.

Obelix, at the reins, sneaked a peek at Asterix, sound asleep, the soft mattress cushioning his fragile body from the jolts and bumps of the road. His eyes were closed, little Dogmatix curled up at his feet.

There was quite a way to go before their next stop. But he'd take care of Asterix every step of the way. The mission would get finished and they'd win their bet. Asterix could make the plans, and he'd carry them out. They'd be all right.

Fixing his eyes on the horizon, Obelix let the road lead them forward.

THE END


End file.
